


The Red Elixir

by Th3Alchemist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/M, Harmione, Harmony - Freeform, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25652431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Th3Alchemist/pseuds/Th3Alchemist
Summary: The Sequel to my story The Alchemist's Cell.Set six months after escaping Hogwarts, Harry and Hermione are now active members in the resistance movement struggling against the oppressive New Magical Order. With Dumbledore firmly subjugated, High Lord Voldemort hatches a plan to tighten his grip on Magical Britain, by developing a way to rip the magic from any dissenters who stand against him.As magical war brews between international superpowers, Harry and Hermione must delve deeply into the ancient mysteries of alchemy, which may be the only protection they have against the sinister machinations of Voldemort. In an adventure that crosses continents, the power of Harmony is tested against factions of a world they never knew existed, all hunting for lost knowledge, a forgotten power of the Earth and the secret of the elusive Red Elixir.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 43





	1. A Special Relationship

"We should head back," Hermione urged, glancing up at the darkening sky. "They aren't coming."

Harry turned his head to frown at her. "They gave us all the money they had. They'll be here."

Despite his assertion, Harry was worried. Dobby, alert at his side, was agitated too. That was never a good sign. Bill and Fleur Weasley, lately married, flanked Harry to the right and left. The tips of their charged and ready wands flickered against the fog of the night. Bill arced his pony-tailed head in Harry's direction.

"Please ... just give it a few more minutes," he plead. "My mother will be ... _emotional._ She might not be moving at her best ... and her _best_ never was that great."

"I will wait as long as we can," Harry promised. "It's not in my nature to accept a payment, then bolt at the first sign of difficulty."

"Thank you."

Bill nodded firmly at Harry. He forgot sometimes that Harry Potter was not yet seventeen, that despite becoming increasingly gnarled over the last six months, he remained infinitely noble. It was _Hermione_ that Bill was more wary of. She was Harry's equal in everything but suspicion and ruthless caution, in which she was significantly more determined. Harry might give this as long as possible ... but _that_ was only for as long as Hermione would permit him to.

And Harry rarely challenged Hermione's judgement on such things.

As it was, the boyfriend of Hermione Granger was quite content to defer to her logic and coolness more often than not. It had kept them alive on half-a-dozen occasions since Christmas alone. Discretion was certainly the better part of valour as far as Harry was concerned, and he was sure the twenty or so families they had smuggled to the safety of the continent would agree.

He was just anxious that Arthur and Molly Weasley would turn up and make it family number twenty-one. The Ratway hadn't failed yet, and Harry didn't want tonight to be the night when their luck finally ran out on them.

Hermione approached Harry just then, curling in tight at his shoulder, as was her way. She spoke lowly to him, her tone as grave as her expression.

"We cant wait forever, Harry. The _channel tunnel_ wont be open for more than a few minutes. If the Weasleys aren't inside ...

"I know, I know," Harry heaved next to her. "We have to leave them to it. And _don't_ remind me - again - about what happened with the Sprouts. I know you were going to."

"I will remind you as often as I have to," Hermione returned firmly. "If it keeps you alive, I don't _care_ how much it hurts your pride. A meek boyfriend is far better than a _dead_ one."

Harry snaked his arm around Hermione's waist and pulled her close. They tried not to talk about _that_ night, that near miss. Every now and then Hermione woke in a fitful state, having relived the terror in her dreams, and Harry had to hush and soothe her back to sleep, usually at the cost of his own.

It was as close as they'd come to breaking their vow never to be parted again. And hugging like this was the only tonic to ease that shuddering horror.

Just then, two little _pops_ pierced the still night, barely audible against the sound of the gently lapping waves of the English coastline. Harry whipped around, wand in hand, and Hermione did the same. Bill hurried past them and embraced his mother, as Arthur Weasley put down his heavy suitcase and hugged Fleur.

"You made it!" Bill hushed, his relief palpable. "We were getting worried."

"And rightly so," Arthur replied grimly. "We barely made it out."

"Out?" Harry asked, coming over. "Out of where?"

"The Ministry," Arthur explained. "I ... I had to know. About Ron. I had to see if I could find any shred of evidence about what had happened to him. But I wasn't as, er, _discreet_ as I might have been. I was almost caught."

"And did you find anything?" Bill pushed.

Arthur shook his head sadly, but Harry shrugged that off as he stepped forwards.

"You went to the _Ministry_!" Harry cried. "You utter fool! Today? Of all days?"

"I had to know ..." Arthur tried to argue.

But Harry was livid. "You _already_ know ... Ron's _dead_ , Arthur! And if he isn't, then he's probably in such a terrible state that he _wishes_ he was. I told you, I _told_ you, to come straight here! You could have jeopardised our entire operation."

"He's my son, Harry!" Arthur moaned, his tone heartsick.

"Lots of people have lost sons and daughters to this, Arthur!" Harry returned bluntly. "What _I'm_ trying to do is help make sure _more_ aren't lost to it. And you go and waltz into the Ministry, even after I expressly told you not to go out in public. After I _explicitly_ told you that I think we have a mole in amongst our scurrying rats. If they knew that we were helping you tonight they could have followed you, traced you here, exposed Brompton Road.

"The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, Arthur. _Never_ forget that."

A bright flash of yellow just to their right suddenly drew all their attention. Harry watched as the now-familiar swirling mass contorted and solidified, forming a perfect circle as it snaked its way along the sandy beach. It came to a stop just in front of them. Harry was now looking along a jet black tunnel, that stretched out behind the circular portal and disappeared under the dark waves. Part of Harry wished, as it always did, that he and Hermione were the ones escaping along it this time.

But Harry was stolen from such wishful thinking as another Apparition _pop_ echoed from the tunnel. It revealed a tall, classically beautiful witch, who looked even more glamorous where the shafts of moonlight dappled her coiffured black hair. Harry always found himself a little tongue-tied around her, until his girlfriend scowled angrily at him and Harry bounced back to Earth with a Hermione Granger-shaped thud.

"Good evening, Amelie," Harry began breezily, as the witch offered her dainty hand to be kissed. Hermione was _never_ happy about this bit.

"Hello, Harry," Amelie Flamel replied in her dulcet French lilt. "Lets get these refugees on the way. Time is short."

Bill and Fleur ushered the Weasley parents forward towards the portal, helping stow their bags inside. As they passed Harry, Arthur stopped and turned to him.

"Harry - I hope you can forgive my indiscretion, or at least understand it. I know it was reckless but ... well, I'm sure you know. But something was going on at the Ministry, something big. You might want to look into it."

Harry frowned at this new information, but Amelie looked as if she, too, had heard this grave news.

"What is it?" Harry pressed.

"Walk with me ... both of you," Amelie nodded at Harry and Hermione, who fell into stride alongside her, as they moved away from the Weasleys saying their last goodbyes. When they were out of earshot, Amelie spoke again. "Mr Weasley is quite correct. There was an important conference taking place in London tonight. And it didn't yield good news."

"That makes a change," Hermione spat sarcastically.

"What was it this time?" Harry added.

"Macmillan Wolff, Supreme Sorcerer of the US Magical Congress, was here to meet with High Lord Voldemort, regarding the escalating troubles on this side of the Atlantic," Amelie explained. "The outcome was the reaffirming of the ' _Special Relationship'_ between Britain and the US ... essentially, Harry, America has entered this War ... on _Voldemort's_ side."

Harry closed his eyes heavily as the news settled on him. Hermione cried out in shock as she, too, digested it.

"Is it certain? Absolutely certain?" Harry insisted.

"It is," Amelie confirmed. "They gave a joint press-conference not an hour ago. This comes as little surprise, Harry. I know you were hoping for the Americans to have a change of heart, but let's be honest ... the ruling forces over there are equally as ruthless and committed to the elitist agenda as they are here. If not moreso."

"Perhaps ... but this really complicates things," Harry sighed deeply.

"Complicates, yes. But _defeats_? Not on your life," Amelie announced staunchly. "The battle lines are being drawn, Harry, but we have _right_ on our side."

"I just hope it's enough," Harry replied lowly.

Hermione slid her arm around Harry supportively. "It will be. And we'll be ready to fight when we have to. The hall is booked, the band is playing ... now it's time to see if we can dance."

Harry leaned in and kissed Hermione full on the mouth, infinitely glad to have her by his side at these bleakest of times.

They moved back to the Weasleys and shared Amelie's news with them. Bill's low growl of anger reminded Harry just how close they were to the full moon, and stirred that sense of deep guilt within him. After all, it was Harry who had sent Bill with Remus Lupin, as emissaries to several werewolf packs, which ultimately led to Bill's injury ... and his love for _very_ rare steaks.

"If things continue at this rate, there wont be much of a Britain left to fight _for_ ," Bill riled. "You might be coming along the Ratway yourself, Harry."

"Not until every last iota of hope has been exhausted," Harry returned firmly. "But, if I do, _you_ can tell me what it's like."

"What? I don't understand."

"You're going, Bill," Harry insisted. "Take your wife, go with your parents. Get out of Britain. With Gringotts compromised we need someone to handle the assets of our new bank, including the money your parents gave to us to keep safe. That should be right up your alley."

"Harry, don't be daft," Bill replied. "It's dangerous here. You need good wizards, particularly now."

"You can't do any good here, Bill! I need you to go with Amelie, be of better use to her. One more wand wont make any difference in the here and now in Britain. But in Europe and Africa, where we can still find allies, one good wizard might give us a fighting chance to win this war."

Bill went to argue, then just shrugged in defeat, as he saw Hermione take up her lioness' posture at Harry's side. If both of them were in agreement, argument was pointless.

"Okay, I'll do as you ask," Bill conceded. "But what will _you_ do?"

"The same thing I've been doing for six months," Harry growled sternly. "Keep giving Voldemort and Dumbledore as many little bloody noses as I can. If I keep at it, maybe one of them will eventually clot around their black hearts ... and we'll be rid of them for good."


	2. Mother Knows Best

Harry woke that morning to the baaing of sheep. One of the farmhands must have left the gate unlatched again, unless the animals had finally decided to rise up and overthrow the humans for stealing all their wool.

Harry put aside such nonsense notions and relaxed into his drowsy state. He always liked the process of waking, of feeling his thoughts trickle into his mind like a gently babbling brook. His first thought, naturally, was of Hermione in the chalet next door (they were rarely brave enough to share a bed, with her parents so close by, though the occasional sneak in for a late night cuddle often led to them waking up together) and he wondered if she was up yet. She did tend to rise early.

But even this was too soon for Hermione. Harry blinked out through the little window of his wooden yurt at the just-rising sun, pale over the sweeping hills and valleys of the Halcyon Gardens. It was too beautiful for Harry’s mind to equate with the darkness engulfing the world elsewhere.

And in fewer places was the darkness more encompassing than in Harry’s own mind. It was the thing he thought about second, once he’d gorged on ideas of Hermione until his thirst was slaked … for the immediate moment at least. For the reality of his situation was far different to the fantasy he’d yearned so hard for.

Wanting to resist Voldemort was one thing … the _actual_ resisting was something else entirely.

It weighed heavier on Harry’s mind with each waking day. The task before him seemed so long, so laborious, that at times Harry wasn’t even sure where to _begin_ , let alone to envisage an end. Being the head of a resistance movement had sounded glamorous and exciting when Dumbledore had thrust it upon him … the reality was one of concern, doubt and fear.

At least Harry wasn’t alone in this fight. He woke up thankful of this fact every single day, whether alone in his bed, or on those wonderful snatched occasions, when he opened his eyes to find bushy brown hair splayed out on the pillow next to him. He would spend hours just _looking_ at Hermione, as if he could never see her face enough. She seemed at such peace when she slept, the frown lines - which matched his own - were gone, her expression serene and waxy.

It gave Harry the fuel to motor on each day, to find a way to eliminate any and all threats that might present themselves to his wonderful witch.

And these threats were growing, so Harry knew his own power had to grow to match. His steely resolution, too. Throwing on his jeans and jacket, he slipped into the brisk Welsh morning air and headed towards the woodland that ringed the park here. Harry liked this wood; it reminded him of the Forbidden Forest, primal and potent, thrumming lowly with ancient power. It wasn’t the soft groves of Surrey, it was the wilds of untamed, Celtic country.

Harry reached his favourite spot in the middle of the wood, about fifteen minutes walk inside. He had a practiced route, past the mangled stump with the mushrooms and white flowers, under that part where the canopy knitted like a wedding arch overhead, and down around the rock pools, where Hermione liked to dip her cute toes into the cool water on the hottest of these Summer days.

It was here that Harry felt at one with the natural power of the place, and where he made the most progress in his Animagi attempts.

He closed his eyes, and summoned the spirit of the lion close to his mind. He pictured him, the colossal body, the thick mane, the powerful paws. He heard the growl of a roar rise in his chest, willed his fingernails to become sharp claws, for his knobbly knees to become bulky limbs.

But all he managed was a little _squeak_ as he could hold his breath no longer. Not even the _babiest_ baby lion would be frightened of _that_.

“You know, you’ll never get it right unless you _practice_ more.”

Harry snapped open his eyes and turned to frown at the auburn-haired witch smirking down at him.

“Morning, Mother,” Harry huffed. “And a bit of _useful_ advice might be, well, useful. It would certainly be an improvement on your criticism.”

Harry had long-since acclimatised to his mother simply appearing to him like this, ever since Hermione had opened up Lily Potter’s Alchemist’s Cell to Harry within an hour of him arriving at The Gardens. It was decided by all that Hermione was the best custodian for such an honour, as Harry couldn’t be trusted not to show it off to anyone who wanted to see, or to simply leave it open when he was finished with it.

After all, it was the way Lily was able to appear to him now.

“I’m not doing all the work for you, Harry,” Lily frowned. "How will you ever learn if I just _tell_ you?"

“You sound like Hermione,” Harry returned mutinously.

“And when has _that_ ever steered you wrong?”

“Now that’s just cheating,” Harry funned. “You know Hermione’s flawless. I need a more realistic metric to be measured by. Preferably someone who isn’t a blessing to humanity.”

“I hope you tell _her_ such things,” Lily smiled. “I don’t think I know _any_ witch who wouldn’t like to hear _that!”_

Harry just smirked at his mother. “Is there something specific you wanted? Or are you just the mouthpiece for Dad and Sirius, telling me how I’ll never get this right. _I know you’re listening, by the way!_ ”

Harry cupped his hands around his mouth as he shouted the last bit, as though that would somehow carry his words to the afterlife.

“I just wanted to see how my boy was,” Lily quipped. “You’re up very early, Harry. That's never usually a good omen for you.”

Harry sighed heavily. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Care to share?”

“Where to start?” Harry groaned, curling his legs beneath him. “Voldemort has more supporters than ever, Dumbledore is only alive because Voldemort feeds him a potion made from his own _blood -_ so he has to do what he’s told or he’ll die - and now the Americans have pledged support for the war against Europe. I miss the days when my biggest worries were whether I’d mixed up Emeric the Oddball and Ulfric the Unruly for Professor Binns.”

“Heady times indeed,” Lily grinned.

“And on top of _that,_ ” Harry went on rather frantically. “I spend most of my days terrified that the Grey Robes and the Death Eaters will turn up, storm the gates of The Gardens, and string Hermione up and torture her, just to torment me. I just cant deal, Mum, I really cant.”

“Of course you can, you’re a Potter,” Lily disagreed sternly. “We’re made of granite, you know. Hermione certainly is.”

“But she isn’t a Potter,” Harry pointed out with a confused frown.

“ _Yet_ ,” Lily smiled knowingly, which made Harry’s insides do crazy flips at the mere suggestion. “Look, my love, I’m sorry to be the one to point this out to you … but you’re _at war_. It isn’t pretty, it isn’t fun, but it’s where you are. And you cant win a war by being passive, by sitting back and hoping it will all go away. Because, I’m afraid, it _wont_.”

“I’m not being passive,” Harry argued. “I’ve smuggled nearly fifty people out of Britain already.”

“And that’s very noble,” Lily agreed. “But it’s not enough.”

“Then what _should_ I do?”

Lily looked at Harry with the coldness of hard steel. Her tone when she spoke was ever firmer.

“ _Fight_.”

Harry blinked back at her, and swallowed hard. “I don’t know how. Voldemort has all the resources -”

“ - then destroy his bank -”

“ - and more fighters,” Harry pointed out.

“Then recruit from abroad,” Lily argued.

“But he cant be _killed_ ,” Harry moaned. “Not while his soul is separated.”

“Then allow him to _fuse_ ,” Lily blurted harshly.

Harry stared at her for a solid minute. “What?”

“Harry, you’re making excuses, and I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing I’d expect from my son,” Lily rounded on him. “You sound like _Dumbledore_.”

That shook Harry. Hard. “What are you saying … that I should _allow_ Voldemort to put his soul back together. That I should … _open your Cell_ to him?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Lily replied staunchly. “Look, Harry, you are approaching this all wrong. I know the road looks long and bleak right now, but until you know how it ends, you cant begin to plan how to get there. You _have_ to be able to kill Tom Riddle when the time comes, whether you are the one who casts the final spell or not. Right now, that isn’t possible.

“So … _make it possible_. You are the only one who can. Or, more precisely, _Hermione_ is.”

“How?”

“I have given her control of my Cell, she can open and close it at will, wherever she likes,” Lily explained. “If you have to open it to Voldemort, do it. Let him put his soul back together inside. If he does it in _here_ , think of the advantage that gives us! We will know more about him than he could ever imagine, more than he would ever want to reveal to anyone. We could know his plans, his targets -”

“ - his _weaknesses_ ,” Harry hushed, suddenly excited.

“Exactly,” Lily agreed. “Then Hermione just closes it again, and we have a link to Tom Riddle that we can find a way to exploit. Don’t forget, the Cell is never _closed_. And when you and Hermione aren’t working in here, _I_ am. And so is your Dad.”

“And Sirius, too!”

“Yes, well, he just wants to use it to conjure Firewhiskey and to watch football on the plasma television,” Lily smirked.

Harry chuckled at that. “Where is he today? Off womanising, I suppose. There are lots of ghost witches in the afterlife, aren’t there?”

“More than he could ever meet, though he is trying!” Lily laughed. “I’m hoping he bumps into Rowena or Helga … they’re planning to eat him for breakfast if he pulls his moves on _them_!”

Harry blinked in his surprise. “You’ve _met_ Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff?”

“Just the once,” Lily smiled. “It was a quiz night at the _Cloudy Pensieve_ , Hogwarts Alumni teams … truth or dare … don’t ask.”

“Sounds a riot,” Harry grinned back.

“Well, Sirius nearly _caused one_ , when Rowena remembered that he once had a five month ‘ _relationship_ ’ with the Grey Lady - her daughter, obviously - then cheated on her with some ghost from a disused bathroom on the Second Floor. It was quite the scandal at the time. Sirius always did have a thing for _dead_ women …”

That was clearly a story for another day. Harry stowed the idea in the back of his mind for now.

“So, you think we should allow Riddle to access the Cell?” Harry asked. “But how do we do that, without raising suspicion?”

“Didn’t you say everyone expects it to be at Hogwarts?” Lily asked. Harry nodded his confirmation. “Well, your best bet would be to open it there.”

“Return to Hogwarts? That might be difficult.”

Actually, _difficult_ didn’t really cover it. The school was now rebranded as _The Hogwarts Academy for Racially Pure Magicals_. The New Magical Order were championing it as a giant leap forward and were already setting up similar institutions in England, Wales and Northern Ireland, all geared towards the promotion of the Pureblood Agenda.

The allied programme, _‘The Fount of Life_ ’, was already in place to ‘produce’ the children who would attend these academies. Word had it that Ginny Weasley had already signed up for when she came of age …

The very idea was enough to bring vomit rising to Harry’s throat.

“It wont be easy, no,” Lily agreed. “And you might have to do something you don’t want to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Weaponise the _Seer_.”

Harry frowned crossly at his mother. “No way. Not a chance! How can you even _suggest_ such a thing?”

“Harry, I know you’ve become very fond of Celesca Roth, but she is an asset you simply have to utilise,” Lily implored. “She can _turn heads_ at Hogwarts, control minds to not even _see_ you. She could even tap into _Voldemort’s_ mind, to alert him to the opening of the Cell. She is ready, willing and eager to help. It’s not ignoble to accept assistance, Harry.”

“No, but it’s morally repugnant to make the girl use a skill that _hurts_ her, just for our gain!” Harry argued hotly. “I wont do it.”

“Hermione would.”

“Maybe,” Harry frowned. “But Hermione hasn’t forgiven Celesca for fancying me a bit, before she started going out with Luna. Her view is tainted.”

“Just think about it, my boy,” Lily urged. “Your resources are growing thin. You will need to make tough choices if you are to survive this. And I’m sure _Celesca_ would be chomping at the bit to help, if it might help protect her girlfriend. You aren’t the only one with someone to lose in this, Harry … or the only one willing to take risks to keep their loved ones safe.”

“I know that,” Harry sighed wearily. “It … it’s just _hard_ … to ask people to put themselves on the line for me.”

“We do it willingly, Harry.”

Harry whipped his head around to see Hermione standing in the forest clearing, her dressing gown hem caked in mud, carrying two mugs of coffee.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked.

“I heard you leave the chalet, and you know how worried I get when you go off without telling me where you’re going,” Hermione replied. “So I thought you might fancy a cuppa.”

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“Your _Mum_ told me.”

Harry scowled at Lily. “You _woke_ her up?”

“Dont be mad at her,” Hermione demanded as she came over. “Sometimes she comes to my dreams, and we do some spiritual alchemical work while I sleep. But she told me you were restless, which made _me_ restless, so _technically_ it was _you_ who woke me up!”

“Well said,” Lily quirked.

Harry frowned at them in turn. “Why do I feel like I’m being tag-teamed here?”

“Dont get all pouty, it’s too early for that,” Hermione retorted. “You know if you pout before noon it ruins your entire day.”

“Just give me the coffee.”

“What’s the magic word?” Hermione teased.

“It’ll be _Avada Kedavra_ if you don’t pass me that mug!” Harry grinned.

“Dont be handing out idle death threats to my future daughter-in-law,” Lily admonished lightly, enjoying the deep blush that stole over _both_ of the other’s faces at her insinuation. “Or I might get cross with you.”

“Cant you go and bother Dad for a bit?” Harry moaned. “Surely it's his turn by now.”

“Fine, but think about what I told you,” Lily replied. “You need to make use of every resource you can. Hermione - try and talk some sense into him, dear.”

And with that, Lily Potter disappeared out of view with a little _puff_ of light.

Harry immediately turned to Hermione. “Whatever you’re thinking about saying - _don’t_. I’m not sure how much you heard, but I’m not turning Celesca into some Merlin-damned _weapon_. That makes me no better than Voldemort and Dumbledore.”

“I agree,” Hermione returned supportively. “It’s wrong. But if Celesca volunteers herself, you _will_ accept her offer. Until then, we need to plan a way to get back into Hogwarts.”

“Any suggestion as to _how_?” Harry asked.

“Just one,” Hermione sighed gravely. “Send Hagrid back to the giants … call in our promise. Then we launch an attack on the _academy_. In the melee, we slip inside and open the Cell, then hide in the Forbidden Forest. Voldemort comes to inspect the damage, finds the Cell opened in the carnage, and we go from there.”

“You know how many ways that can go wrong, yeah?” Harry smirked at her.

“Of course,” Hermione replied bracingly. “But I want a chance to set that NMO banner up in flames. That abomination has been fluttering above our school for _far_ too long. Come on … let’s write our own chapter in _Hogwarts: A History._ ”


	3. The Annexation of St Mungo's

It was raining again, heavier than it had been earlier.

The steady drum on the wooden cabin roof stirred Hermione to wake, ironic as it was this same soporific sound that had sent her to sleep. She had been dozing by the log fire in Harry’s cabin, reading through a battered copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ she’d found in the Roth’s library, while Harry tried to learn all the names of the ancient Runes from the new set Hermione had bought him that previous Christmas. It had been six months now and he still hadn’t nailed the pronunciation of them all.

All in all it had been a pleasant sort of evening. A number of the refugees, under the protection of the Halcyon Gardens' old Celtic magic, had gotten together to celebrate the coming of the Summer Solstice. They had built a bonfire, erected small coverings of canvas propped up with sticks donated by the enchanted woodland, and adorned themselves with natural jewellery. Hermione had given Harry the acorn necklace she was finally happy enough with, while he threaded daffodils and daisies into a crown-like braid around her forehead.

When she saw her reflection, Hermione thought she looked positively cute.

Then the assembled witches and wizards ate and drank, danced and gave thanks for whatever they felt thankful for. Spells and chants were offered to Nature and the Sacred Fire, before Luna and Celesca displayed their musical side by playing a traditional whistle and harp duet, to the delight of the appreciative audience.

That’s when it started to rain, just a drizzle at first but slowly becoming so incessant that everyone had to hurry indoors to escape the impending downpour. Hermione used a clever little spell she’d learned, to temporarily give warmth to Harry’s normally heat-less fire (as it was June now and very warm at that). Once they were dry, she returned the fire to a state of subdued flickering and settled in to read, only to drift off after about three minutes of being so obscenely cosy.

Pattering rain, a crackling fire, a book in hand, Harry in sight, content and safe … it was all Hermione needed to become utterly relaxed.

Her mouth curled into a dreamy smile, as she hitched her knees into her chest and snuggled down into the big armchair, letting her eyes fall onto Harry’s slumbering form on the bed in the corner. He looked so peaceful, untroubled. If Hermione could condense her world down to anything it would be into moments like this. Times when it was just her and Harry, when the world was only as big as the walls of this cabin, and the darknesses outside no more threatening than the clouds which scudded past the silver moon.

But that wasn’t her world, no matter how much Hermione wished it might be. Crookshanks was living proof of that, which he pointedly reminded her of by padding by just then. Minerva McGonagall had smuggled him out of the castle that was Hogwarts during her own flight from the old school, but not without struggle. The escape had been made under a furious exchange of magical fire, and one spell had cost Crookshanks an eye. Hermione had tried to knit him a little eye-patch, but Crookshanks was having none of it. He’d managed to get in a good scratch or two on members of the Grey Robes and his lost eye was just a casualty of war.

And he seemed proud to display his empty socket as though it were some sort of badge of honour.

Hermione took out her wand, thinking maybe Crookshanks wanted his wound cleaned, as it often needed such treatment. But he had simply trotted by to see if there was anything to eat, then merely rattled his bushy tail in displeasure when he saw there wasn’t. Hermione didn’t need to use her ever improving skills in cat-speak to know that Crookshanks was thoroughly unimpressed with her lack of kitty treats.

Stirred and stretching now, Hermione decided it was best to return to her own cabin. She was due to meet her parents for a walk around the Brecon Beacons National Park in the morning, and they didn’t approve much of catching her in _Harry’s_ cabin, which was happening with ever-greater frequency. They weren’t doing anything _too_ naughty, but parents were a suspicious breed of creature and Hermione was thinking it was best not to test them on this delicate issue.

Pulling a shawl around her shoulders, Hermione prepared to steal out into the steady rainfall for the quick dash to the next yurt. She checked on Harry, tucking the blankets around his sleeping form, then she pressed a chaste kiss to his lightening scar and smiled inwardly, marvelling that this maddeningly cute wizard was all hers. Then she turned to go.

And promptly jumped out of her skin, as Hedwig abruptly slammed into the window of the cabin and began practically _attacking_ it!

“Return fire! Return fire!” Harry cried stupidly, as he was startled awake by the frantic rapping of beak-on-glass. Groggily pulling on his glasses, Harry looked up at Hermione. “Is that Hedwig? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione replied anxiously, throwing off her shawl. “But she looks awfully animated.”

Hermione was at the door in three strides, yanking it open to allow Hedwig to enter. The owl soared to the roof, screeching and barking, before zooming madly around their heads in a most un-Hedwig-like fashion.

“Something’s wrong,” Harry announced decisively, jumping up and jamming on his trainers. “Or someone’s hurt. Hedwig would _never_ imitate Pigwidgeon … unless she was taking the piss out of the little scrag.”

Hedwig hooted in complete agreement with _that_ statement.

Hermione had never seen anyone go from groggy to hyper alert so quickly. It sent a tickle through her skin, a shock of adrenaline to see Harry stirred to fighting form like this. In some ways it was _devastatingly_ erotic, in others downright terrifying. This situation was more of the latter.

“Lead on girl,” Harry called to Hedwig, as he fastened his coat before hurrying out after his owl. But not before grabbing Hermione’s hand on the way past.

“I’m coming too?”

“Of course,” Harry replied grimly. “I need you to do that Umbrella Charm … I’ve never quite mastered it!”

“Cheeky sod!” Hermione quirked, slapping Harry playfully on the forearm. They both knew full well that it was Harry who had taught the charm to _her_ , but it was still Hermione who drew her wand and cast an invisible canopy above them, shielding their heads from the ever-incessant rain. Hermione was starting to love her Welsh surroundings, but the weather could do with improving.

But that was a spell for another day. For now, Harry and Hermione hurried on after Hedwig into the twilight of the Halcyon Gardens. Both were familiar enough with this part of the estate now to comfortably make their way around in the dark, but every now and then a distant flash of lightening over the hills threw the farms and woodlands into stark, silvery relief. It was breathtaking and dramatic, especially as the storm was too far away to yield the sound of thunder.

And that was when they saw it.

A shape, distinctly human, huddled tight against the rickety wooden fence that orbited the sheep pastures. Hedwig was circling it, calling out passionately into the rainy night, begging for aid. Harry and Hermione were now fitful to respond. They quickened their pace, practically breaking into a full-out run by the time they reached the figure, who had hugged tight into itself, as though bracing against a beating. It was an analogy that was not too far from the truth.

For it was Celesca.

She was drenched, clothed only in a saturated cotton nightdress that clung tight to the milky skin of her slim frame. Harry threw his coat around her, to protect her modesty from the chill in the air, while Hermione stole Harry’s wand from his pocket and cast Drying and Warming Charms around the shivering girl, crouching next to Celesca so she was covered by Hermione’s Umbrella Charm.

“Celesca? Cesc?” Hermione asked gently. “What are you doing out here?”

No response. Hermione might as well have been talking to the fencepost.

“We need to move her,” Harry announced, brushing rain from his now-soaked forehead. “She’ll get sick if we don’t get her indoors.”

“We need to know why she’s here first, Harry,” Hermione disagreed. “What if … what if she’s _running_ from something? We cant just take her back if she’s trying to escape.”

Harry’s heart slammed into his throat. ”You’re not suggesting … she’s being _abused_?”

Hermione turned her eyes to Harry. “She’s a sixteen year old girl in just a nightie, no underwear, crouching in the pouring rain. Yes, it’s a natural speculation.”

On instinct, Hermione slipped a consoling arm around Celesca’s shoulders. The girl finally responded to the attention, turning her head to look at Hermione … who promptly squeaked at what she saw.

“ _Harry!”_ Hermione gasped in horror. “Her _eyes_ … what’s wrong with her _eyes_!”

Harry knelt down close for a better look, and froze in a mirror of Hermione’s reaction. For Celesca’s eyes had _altered_. No longer were they the strange, swirling electric blue that had startled Harry when he first met her … now they were _black as tar_. Harry blinked as he tried to process the vision.

“Harry … what’s happened to her?”

“I - I don’t know,” Harry muttered lowly. “She looks … _evil!”_

Hermione huffed crossly at that. “She does _not_ look evil! If anything, she looks terrified. Harry … I wonder - do you think she’s having a vision? You know … a _Seer_ vision?”

Harry was stunned by the possibility. A memory popped into his mind, of a strange day back at Hogwarts, when another Seer began acting rather peculiar, before making a Prophecy to him.

“You know, I think you might be right,” Harry breathed, leaning in closer to Celesca still. “Cesc - can you hear me? Can you see me?”

“I can _See_ ,” Celesca hushed in reply. Something about the way she said _‘see’_ made Harry think she wasn’t talking about regular visual sight.

“Tell me,” Harry cajoled.

“I See … _people_ ,” Celesca began, her voice a raspy shadow of itself. “Lots of people. They are sick, in beds. Other people are trying to make them better.”

“A hospital?” Hermione pondered, more to Harry than Celesca. Harry just shrugged as the Seer continued.

“But there … there are others, ones who don’t _want_ them to get better. They are waiting, building something. In a chamber, a dark chamber. They are building something big. There is stone, and metal grates, and a chimney. It goes way up into the ceiling …”

“A fire? Is someone building a fire?” Hermione speculated. “Who would build a fire in a hospital?”

Harry’s expression darkened like a cloud across the sun. “Maybe it isn’t a fire … but a _furnace_.”

“Yes … yes,” Celesca dreamily agreed. “The Furnace. That’s what it’s called. The sick people are going to be put inside and … and … no … no, I don’t want to see! Please, no!”

And with that, Celesca promptly passed out.

* * *

Sunlight streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the large sitting room of the Blue Palace. The view out was of the stunning valley, which still sparkled and shimmered as the sun hit the still-damp foliage of trees and lush sweeping lawns of the Halcyon Gardens. It was hard to imagine, framed by a scene of such beauty, that darkness of equal magnitude was being carried out elsewhere.

But that was the dominant discussion taking place that morning. As Celesca recuperated from her ordeal the night before, Harry and Hermione filled in Regulus and Harriet-Helena about the details of their daughter’s vision. Neville, Enola and Minerva McGonagall were also in attendance. And it turned out that Regulus knew exactly what his daughter had witnessed in her terrifying episode.

“Brompton Road has heard rumours of this,” Regulus was saying, pouring - then draining - a strong coffee, and immediately refilling his cup. He’d been nursing Celesca for six hours straight, and his drawn expression was testament to his fathering efforts. “We had hoped they weren’t true … but Celesca is rarely wrong.”

“What was it she saw, Mr Black?” Hermione pressed. “It was quite distressing for her.”

“I can imagine,” Regulus agreed. “What she saw was, I believe, a future vision of St Mungo’s.”

Harry sat up, alert. “St. Mungo’s? What in the hell are they going to do with _that_?”

“Yeah, even fascists need a hospital!” Neville quirked.

“Brompton Road understands, from our spies inside the GR, that there are plans afoot to _re-purpose_ St Mungo’s,” Regulus explained.

“Re-purpose?” Harry parroted. “What does that mean?”

“They are going to change its use … make it a … a -”

“Just say it,” Hermione whispered in a little voice. “I think we all know what’s coming.”

Regulus sighed in dark agreement and closed his eyes. “St. Mungo’s is going to become a Centre for Advanced Eugenics. _Wizarding_ eugenics, you understand.”

Harry spat out his own coffee. “Bloody Pureblood crap again!”

“Oh no, Harry, this is far more sinister than simply being another spoke in the Pureblood Agenda,” Regulus corrected. “This is about _‘improving’_ magical kind … _perfecting_ them if you will. In the eyes of Voldemort and the GR, anyway. Defects will be eradicated, undesirable traits eliminated, all in the pursuit of this perverted ideal of a _master race_. Those who don’t fit the ideal template will … well, I’m sure I don’t need to be _too_ graphic about what will happen to _them_.”

Suddenly, Neville was taut and alert, perched on the edge of his seat. “Defects, you say? Undesirable traits? What would happen to those magical people who _already_ have things like that?”

“I think my daughter’s vision illustrates _that_ ,” Regulus replied gravely. “There is no place in the New Magical Order for those deemed less than perfect. The future for such people is grim … and ultimately ... _short_.”

Neville roared in a burst of anxious anger and jumped to his feet. Harry went with him, such was his electric fervour.

“Nev? What’s wrong?!”

“What’s _wrong?_!” Neville cried passionately. “The damaged, the sick, the permanently baffled! The GR are going to _liquidate_ them, Harry! And my parents are part of that group! They are _at_ St Mungo’s right now! I have to go.”

“Nev, wait!” Harry implored, grabbing Neville’s arm to stop him leaving. “You can’t just go charging off to London on some daredevil rescue mission! You’ll be caught and who knows what.”

“Get off me, Harry!” Neville yelled, yanking his arm free. “If it was _your_ parents in danger, you’d be off like a shot!”

“My parents are dead, Neville,” Harry reminded him quietly.

Neville faltered, but only a little. “I know that. _Of course_ I know that! But if they were alive, nothing would stop you from going to save them. _You_ know that. And I’m not going to leave my parents in danger, either … not while I have strength in my veins and breath in my lungs! Now get out of my way.”

“No.”

“Move!”

“No,” Harry replied defiantly, stepping across Neville to block his path. “That is a Government-protected facility. If you go charging in there you’ll get caught and killed, and you’ll be no use to your parents as a ghost, now will you?”

“No, Nev, you wont,” Hermione agreed, standing firmly at Harry’s side. “You’re better off as an alive wizard. At least like _that_ you can use Concealment Charms, and noxious Potions, oh, and Harry - we’re going to need spells.”

“Lots and lots of offensive spells,” Harry agreed. He grinned at Neville, who balled a thankful fist around his wand.

“Thank you,” Neville muttered out.

“Harry, if you’re going to London, take The Rocket,” Regulus advised. “The GR are monitoring all above-ground transport. You’ll never make it past Reading if you take a conventional train.”

“I _have_ to learn how to Apparate properly,” Harry moaned. “Hermione - add that to my To-Do List, will you?”

“Since when did I become your personal secretary?” Hermione volleyed back, affronted.

“You didn’t, but I _know_ you keep that list anyway,” Harry teased.

“Ok _fine_ , so perhaps I _do_ ,” Hermione confessed with a cute flush. “But it’s only because you’re so hopeless without me.”

“And on such truths is our rebellion based!” Harry laughed. “Come on, let’s fire up The Rocket.”

* * *

Under an hour later and Harry and Hermione were leading Neville and Enola - who refused to be left behind while her boyfriend went into danger - onto the Rocket. This was an underground vehicle propelled along a purpose-built tube track by explosive magic. It made the journey from South Wales to London in precisely thirty-seven minutes, which was exactly thirty-six minutes too long in Neville’s opinion.

A quick costume change at Brompton Road tube station later and the four of them were heading into the bright streets of magical London. Harry, as the most recognizable face, was hidden under his Invisibility Cloak, but Hermione had donned an elaborate blonde wig complete with a chic red beret and black lace visor. She looked like an escapee from Cold War spy novel, Harry thought.

Their progress was slow and arduous. Magical London was not the free-flowing set of thoroughfares it once was. There were new sentry booths at regular intervals, where wizards and witches were required to submit their wands for inspection and consent to bag checks. These were done almost at random, and Team Potter had to time their movements just right, to when some other unfortunate wretch had been pulled aside by the Grey Robes, distracting them, allowing Harry and co to slip past while their attention was elsewhere. 

Along a portion of Diagon, stealing down the bizarrely safer Knockturn, and into the anonymity of Immore Alley and soon the group found themselves facing the imposing wrought-iron gates of St Mungo’s ... and it was clear that the place was undergoing a significant renovation. There were builders and architects, and work-elves scurrying around over towers of scaffolding. Piles of bricks lay ready, containers of equipment containing who-knew-what were stacked three deep here and there, and there were cries and barks of orders as work continued at a breakneck pace. It was a stark sight.

But the worst aspect was pointed out by Hermione a moment later. Drawing Harry's attention to a group of bedraggled workers nearby, Hermione leaned in close to whisper into his ear. He shuddered as she spoke, but it wasn't the mindless shiver he liked so much when his girlfriend's breath usually kissed his skin. This was one of pure and unadulterated disgust.

"Slave gangs, Harry," she muttered grimly. "See the different coloured sashes they wear? I'd bet my right arm that they denote Muggleborns, Half-borns and Blood Traitors. The poor things!"

Harry felt his heart hammer angrily in his chest. He looked closely at the group, perhaps to see if he could spot a shock of fiery red hair hiding there. But each member of the slave gang was shaven-headed, almost scalped. If Ron _was_ amongst them, he was as indistinguishable as the pale green, flimsy outfits they all wore.

There were about a dozen slave gangs working away, and the amount of Grey Robed and clearly armed wizards monitoring them was breathtaking. Some even had specially-mounted assault wands attached to magical staffs. The GR wizards were wielding these new type of wands like Muggle rifles. Harry had heard about them, that they contained pre-cast spells for rapid fire. It was one thing to hear about them, but to _see_ them for himself … it made Harry shudder inside his robes.

“How the hell are we going to get past those?” Neville breathed, suddenly aware of the magnitude of the task ahead of them.

“There are too many of them,” Enola agreed. “We’ll never make it through.”

“My word, did you _really_ think you’d just be able to walk up and stroll inside?” Hermione cried lowly. “ _Honestly_! Harry … give me your glasses.”

“My glasses?” Harry asked, confused. “Why?”

“Just give them to me!” Hermione shrieked impatiently, to which Harry complied. A flick of a wand later and the glasses had been transformed into a gurney, and Hermione turned her wand on Neville and herself, turning their cloaks into medical robes.

“What about me?” asked Enola.

“Jump onto the stretcher,” Hermione commanded. Enola did as she was told and Hermione aimed her wand at Enola’s belly. “ _Engorgio!”_

“Ahhh!” Harry breathed, impressed, as he understood. “That, Ennie, is your cue to act _pregnant_!”

Enola giggled at that. “Just don’t get any ideas, Longbottom. I can see your mind whirring away there.”

“Hey, it’s not the pregnancy I’m thinking about, but the _practice_!” Neville laughed.

“Pure filth,” Enola giggled back. ”Come on … _arrggg … oww …ooo.”_

With hidden Harry pushing at the head of the stretcher, and Neville and Hermione either side, they took off at a rush and headed up the winding path towards the hospital doors. Enola’s exaggerated screams of agony grew louder as they approached the building. They were nearly there when two GR guards raced over and blocked their path.

“Stop right there!” one of them barked. “What is the meaning of this?”

“The meaning!?” Hermione cried. “What do you mean _meaning!?_ This girl is in labour, isn’t that obvious? Even to _you_?”

“I cannot allow unauthorised entry to the hospital,” the guard insisted, colouring slightly at the fierce rebuke.

“Unauthorised!” Hermione yelled. “I am a senior staff nurse from the maternity department! I have just rushed out to bring this poor girl in to deliver her baby. Now, out of my way! Unless I just leave her with _you_ to deal with. Though I wouldn’t want a potentially dead baby on my hands, if it were _me_!”

“Arrggghhh!!!” Enola howled. “My fanny is _killing_ me! It’s _ripping apart!_ Ow! Ow! I think I can feel a head …”

The two guards, who had gone distinctly green, looked at each other. Then, as though silently agreeing, stepped aside to let the stretcher pass. Hermione threw the guard a dirty, disgusted look and Harry had to bite his tongue, to stop him cursing the bastard non-verbally as he moved close to him.

Then they were inside, into the cool of the Reception Area. Quick as a flash, Hermione re-Transfigured the stretcher into Harry’s glasses and, to her immense credit, Enola kept her feet as the bed disappeared beneath her, breaking into a jog as Hermione re-sized her belly.

“My _fanny is ripping_ ,” Neville tutted as they came to a stop. “Really? Was that necessary?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Enola quipped. “Now, which way to your parents?”

“Look, I think we should split up,” Hermione suggested. “The Government just introduced that Social Distancing Bill, to limit group sizes in public places to just five people. If we stay as a four, we’ll draw attention.”

“But they cant see me,” Harry pointed out.

“Honey, I need you active now, not hiding like a fart under a blanket,” Hermione replied patiently. “I’ve brought your shawl.”

Harry drew in a sharp breath. They had been working on this disguise for him for some time, but this was the first opportunity they would have to use it. It was a headdress of sorts, with a face covering that left only the eyes free. Harry’s tell-tale round spectacles were replaced with aviator-style sunglasses, making him look like an exotic assassin from the middle-east or something.

“So much for Cultural Appropriation,” Harry huffed, slipping the headdress on as his Invisibility Cloak fell away. Hermione stuffed it safely into a magically modified bag she had taken to carrying around with her.

“Can you see?” she asked, adjusting the aviators.

“Not with your hands in front of my eyes.”

“Harry …”

“I can see. Stop fussing.”

“Okay,” Hermione huffed. She turned to Neville and Enola. “You go and find your parents. Stick to the shadows, take your time. Don’t do anything that will attract attention.”

“And what will you do?” asked Neville.

“We need to find this furnace or incinerator,” Harry replied. “And anything else they might be doing here. Maybe we can put a spanner in the works.”

“Alright,” Neville nodded. “The ward my parents are on is on the fourth level now. There’s a waiting room near the elevator there. We’ll find my Mum and Dad and take them there.”

“Good idea,” Hermione replied. “We’ll meet there in half an hour, then plan a way out.”

“Remember, no unnecessary risks,” Harry added warningly.

With one last nod at each other, the two pairs parted. Harry immediately turned to Hermione.

“Do you think splitting up is a good idea?”

Hermione frowned at him. “Harry, I don’t think _being here_ is a good idea. Splitting up is irrelevant at this point.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Harry prodded as they began to walk quickly down the corridor.

“Because I could tell you had already made up your mind to support Neville, so I made up my mind to support _you_ ,” Hermione explained plainly. “Doesn’t mean I have to agree with any of it. We shouldn’t _be_ here, Harry. It’s beyond reckless.”

“Maybe, but Neville is right,” Harry argued. “If it was my parents - or _yours -_ I wouldn’t rest until I’d gotten them safe.”

“Yes, I know, but Neville’s parents are … well … _not well_. Getting them out may be more trouble than it’s worth!”

“You don’t mean that,” Harry muttered quietly.

“Okay … maybe I _don’t_ ,” Hermione hushed hotly. “But this is so dangerous, Harry.”

“But if we can curtail whatever the GR are doing here, it’ll be worth it!” Harry argued fiercely. “That’s worth the risk!”

“Yes … yes you’re right,” Hermione conceded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so heartless. You wont tell Neville what I said, will you?”

“Oh yeah, it’ll be the first thing I’ll say to him when we meet up!” Harry cried sardonically. “Of course I wont tell him. Now, you tell _me_ where we are going.”

“We should try and find this furnace, see how far along they are with it,” Hermione replied.

But that plan soon turned out to be a false dawn, as the concentration of Grey Robes was so dense on the lower levels that you could have barely fit a spell between them, though Harry thought there was great merit in the idea of firing spells _at them_. Hermione, as usual, had to adopt the mantle of the sensible one of the pair, and guided Harry swiftly away before he could even decide which curse he’d like to use first.

The hive of activity on the basement levels was in stark contrast to the rest of the hospital. It was eerily quiet. The re-purposing plan, it seemed, was far more advanced than Brompton Road had any idea of. Normally bustling wards were empty, beds and monitoring equipment were absent, and Harry and Hermione had to slip away from Grey Robed sentries more often than they did medical personnel.

“Where _is_ everybody?” Hermione whispered, as she and Harry hid inside a storage locker as a guard stalked past, no doubt drawn by Hermione’s startled little squeak when she realised they were sharing the locker with a full sized skeleton, which greeted them cheerily as they closed the door behind them.

Harry shook his head to the question, not really wanting to consider the implications of the answer. If the hospital was as empty as this, they may be too late already …

They decided to head to the fourth floor early, taking the stairs in case the lifts were being monitored. But when they stepped out onto the third floor, they were drawn by the nature of the place. It was cooler up here, and darker, as though the place were being purposely chilled or incubated. It was clearly in use, whereas the lower floors had the distinct air of being prepped for re-purpose.

“They’re doing something up here,” Harry muttered. “I think we should see what."

Hermione nodded as she agreed, and followed Harry into the dimly lit corridor. It had been rebuilt and was now a horribly angular walkway shaped, Harry thought with a shudder, like a _coffin_. The walls slanted outwards at an angle, then cut sharply back in before they hit the roof. And there was a dull sort of red glow coming from strip lights in the ceiling. It was the most foreboding atmosphere Harry had ever been in.

He guided them along a network of similarly infernal corridors. They saw several people who may have been Doctors or magical scientists, and a couple of armed guards that seemed to be escorting them around. Harry and Hermione ducked around corners, hid in alcoves and even spent five breathless minutes next to a partially-dissected corpse, as they heard voices emerge from another room up ahead.

It was as Harry surveyed the room they had dived into to hide that he felt true revulsion rise into his throat.

For they were in a _nursery._

Rows and rows of incubated cots stretched away from the door, in a room so vast and dark that Harry couldn't see the far end. He stepped up to the nearest cot and his heart slammed painfully into his throat. For there was a _baby_ inside! It was covered in rune stones and engraved gems, though Harry couldn’t even guess what for. A glass panel on the incubator hood monitored life signs, brainwave activity, and Magic Potential Level. Harry had never heard of that, or if he had he'd forgotten what it was.

But there was a classification label, too. Some cots were labelled L - for _Lebensborn_. That triggered something in Harry’s mind, but his revulsion was such that he couldn’t remember from where. Other incubators had a large letter T, stamped on them, which Harry saw meant _test subject_. Harry's flesh crawled when he considered the implications of such a place.

“Hermione! Look at this!” he hissed.

“I know, I know,” she breathed back, squeezing his hand so tightly that it almost hurt.

“What’s a _Lebensborn?_ I’ve heard that somewhere.”

“Me too,” Hermione whispered. “Look at that symbol. It’s like a letter Y with an extra line through the middle. Take that badge with it on, see if Regulus knows what it is.”

Harry snatched up the little pin badge from a black gown hanging near the door.

“Come on, let’s hope Neville and Enola are having a better time than us.”

As it turned out, Neville and Enola were having a far _worse_ time. Harry and Hermione emerged onto the fourth floor and right into the middle of a full-on duel. Neville and Enola were pinned down behind some upturned beds and a dislodged door, dodging spells from a couple of sentries that were blocking the staircase and lift area.

Harry and Hermione’s sudden appearance took the sentires by surprise, and they were unable to respond as spells hit them hard and fast. One of them slammed hard into a wall, hit by Harry’s powerful Blasting Curse which shattered his right arm as it threw him back with some force. The other guard was hit with a Body-Bind curse so tight that it cracked at least two ribs, and he quickly passed out from the pain.

“You took your time!” Neville called out angrily, as Harry and Hermione reached them. “Half an hour, you said!”

“Yes, and we have thirty seconds to spare,” Hermione replied fairly. “Are you hurt?”

“No, but one of their Stunners hit Mum,” Neville replied, pointing to his parents, who were slumped against the door frame behind them. “She’s out cold.”

Harry looked at them, unable to tell much of a difference between the brain-addled and placid Frank Longbottom and his unconscious wife, Alice. All along the floor other patients were ambling around, zombie-like and aimless. It was as if they’d just been denied care and left to their own devices, to fend for themselves or, Harry thought darkly, to die of their own accord while the Grey Robes were busy building their funeral pyre in the undercroft.

It was a notion that churned Harry’s stomach.

“We shouldn’t linger,” Enola piped up, pocketing her whitewood wand. “This commotion wont have gone unheard.”

“No, I agree,” Harry nodded. “But I don’t fancy fighting our way down the stairs or risking the elevator. Hermione, how are your Wingardium Leviosa skills these days?”

“My wah … _oh_ ,” Hermione returned, her eyes widening. “You’re thinking of winching a mattress out the window and floating down?”

Harry grinned at her. “A few mattresses, actually. Can you do it?”

“Of course I can _do_ it,” Hermione huffed, affronted by the slight against her skills. “I’d just rather not do something so suicidal.”

“Look, you’re the only one who can Apparate properly,” Harry reminded her. “You can get to the garden outside here, then Nev, Ennie and I can get Mr and Mrs Longbottom out of the window. Then it’s up to you.”

“Fine. But I just want you to know that -”

“- yes it’s insane and idiotic,” Harry cut across. “I’ll let you lecture me about it when we’re safely back at the Blue Palace. Now go.”

It took five minutes for Harry, Neville and Enola to drag the Longbottoms and three thick mattresses to the window. It didn’t open very wide, so Harry just kicked the glass out to offset some rampant adrenaline. It shattered with a satisfying smash. Together, they tossed the mattresses out, which Hermione - now on the ground below - elegantly floated into a big pile under the line of windows.

Mr and Mrs Longbottom went next, and Harry couldn’t help but thrill at Hermione’s prowess as each one drifted down as soft as feathers and fell with complete control onto the mattress pile. Indeed, Hermione had more trouble guiding the befuddled Cruciatus victims to the safety of the long foliage than she did getting them down from the fourth floor window in the first place.

Next, Enola just jumped out of the window and bounced safely off the mattresses, only for Hermione to shrilly tell her off for such recklessness. Then it was just Harry and Neville.

“You first,” Harry insisted.

“No, Hermione will kill me if I leave you here.”

“I’ll kill you if you stay.”

“How about I kill both of you?”

Harry whipped around and looked deeply into the dark features of a wizard he’d seen only once before. A memory careened into his mind, of a gloomy room at the Ministry of Magic, surrounded by globes of Prophecy, of the flash of a purple spell … and a surprised little ‘ _oh’_ that still haunted Harry’s more frightful dreams to this very day …

And Harry Potter reacted on protective instinct.

Before either of the others could move, Harry kicked one of the now mattress-less cots towards the figure of Antonin Dolohov. It sped towards him, throwing off his wand-arm as he cast his signature scorching curse in Neville’s direction. It still hit him though, striking across his left shoulder. Neville let out a shrill whimper of pain and doubled up to cradle his wound.

It gave Harry his chance. Darting forwards before Neville could notice, Harry made as if to console him and check how he was. But instead, with one hand at the base of Neville’s spine and the other taking a fistful of his robes, Harry eased Neville forward … then pitched him headfirst out of the window, with Neville cursing him between his pitiful whines. Harry hoped Hermione and Enola down below would do the rest.

Then, satisfied, Harry turned to face the Death Eater. In Harry's mind, Neville had no business as part of the duel. This Death Eater bastard had once _injured_ Hermione … _hurt her_ ... so for Harry ... this fight was _personal_.

Dolohov fired first, sending balls of fire in Harry’s direction. He rolled away deftly, watching the flaming orbs crash into the wall and disintegrate with the crackle of settling embers. Coming up on one knee behind a upturned medicine cabinet, Harry fired off several Blasting Hexes of his own, shattering a window and decimating a curtain divider as Dolohov dived clear of the spells.

The Death Eater seemed to like fire-based curses, Harry considered next, as the cabinet he was using for cover suddenly erupted in dark, angry flames. Harry jumped back and aimed his wand at his wristwatch, transfiguring it into a shining gold shield and pouring as much of his magic into it as he could, as he imbibed it with a raft of Protego spells.

And in good time too, as Dolohov leapt around the burning cabinet and fired a spell at Harry, which the shield took the brunt of with a deep and reverberating _gong_. Then Harry raised his wand and fired a Slicing Hex at Dolohov, which opened up a deep groove in his cheek. He moaned lowly at the pain and dived at Harry, who sidestepped him and span away to the centre of the room.

By this time, the commotion had drawn several of the zombie-like patients who had been aimlessly wandering the corridors. Attracted by the noise, about half a dozen of them stood idly in the smashed door frame, watching with curious disinterest as Harry Potter battled a famed Death Eater, .

But not for nothing was Antonin Dolohov so renowned and reviled. Smiling a twisted grin at Harry, with blood pouring freely from his deep cheek wound, he aimed his wand not at Harry … but at the helpless spectators in the doorway. He flicked his wrist, there was a flash of green, and two of the onlookers crumpled like deflated dolls, eyes still round and glassy as they hit the floor, quite dead.

“No!” Harry roared. He flicked his wand and cast an Accio at one of the steel bed charts that were scattered around the floor. He launched it powerfully at Dolohov, but the Death Eater cast a spell which caught the object mid-air, and sent it rocketing back at Harry, striking him painfully in the throat.

Harry fell to the floor, dazed and struggling to breathe. He heard as much as he saw Dolohov move towards him, such was his swimming vision. The powerful wizard bent over him and Harry felt a drop of his hated blood fall onto his exposed neck.

“Now, lets see who you are,” Dolohov taunted, reaching for Harry’s turban-like face mask. “You were quite the opponent. You were almost worthy of that badge in your hand … _my badge_.”

But before he could unravel even one level of the bind, there was a gentle breeze near Harry’s head, an angry shriek of spell casting and Dolohov was blasted back so powerfully that Harry heard bone shatter as he smashed into a wall opposite. He looked up to see Hermione, her face white and furious and radiating fierce waves of the sort of electric charge that Harry usually associated with an angry Dumbledore.

Harry knew right then … he was _safe_.

“Are you okay?” Hermione asked fitfully.

“Muh - muh - throat,” Harry croaked, pointing to his neck, which was swelling up rapidly.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here. I’ve never done Side-Along Apparition before … but I’ve read the theory …”

Harry nodded, unable to speak through the agony. He trusted Hermione implicitly, knowing her guesses were usually more reliable than most peoples facts. In any case, Harry thought as Hermione slid her arm around him, he couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather be Splinched with if this went wrong.

But, of course, Hermione Granger was rarely wrong, and a second later they were out with the other and hurtling back towards safety.


	4. The Lebensborn

Harry adjusted the largest of the runestone pendants handing at his throat, shifting it away from his Adam’s Apple, where it had been poking into his flesh. The three pendants, each thrumming lowly with its own power, were there in an attempt to speed up his healing, to bring down the dark bruises which had blossomed all around his skin. Minerva McGonagall had suggested the technique, and it seemed to be working, though Harry was still quite cross to be adorned with such jewellery.

All things considered, Antonin Dolohov was proving to be quite the pain in the neck.

Harry winced as he involuntarily chuckled at his own sarcastic thought. The sound drew Hermione scurrying to his side, eager to reprise her role as his personal nurse. Harry tried to not let his mind hitch on the idea of Hermione in a nurses’ uniform, but the thought planted itself there despite his flimsy protests. In truth, it was a perfect tonic to distract him from the pain.

“Are you alright? Do you need anything?” Hermione asked quickly, standing on alert in readiness to dash off for anything Harry might ask for.

“M’ alright,” Harry croaked out. “Bit thirsty.”

“Here, drink this,” Hermione urged, filling a glass in her hand with water from her wand. “Do you need more of the salve? Is your breathing okay?”

“Hermione - stop!” Harry insisted. “M’fine. Just water, please.”

Hermione handed over the glass in slightly trembling hands. She hated seeing Harry in such distress, absolutely _hated_ it. She hated it more that she couldn’t do much about it. She had a trio of textbooks from Celesca’s personal library dotted around her, but they focused more on mental Healing than anything physical. Oh how Hermione rued not using the Hogwarts library more efficiently when she’d had the chance!

And not just for Healing magic either. For Hermione was finding the books literally no help at all in deciphering the mystery of the Lebensborn. The name didn’t appear in the any of the tomes she had managed to procure, nor did the strange symbol on the pin badge Harry had managed to keep hold of that had once belonged to the despised wizard, Dolohov.

For once, books were proving about as useful as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest.

Hermione was happy to be distracted by going to Harry’s aid, as her research was proving to be terribly frustrating. Of course, there was good and bad with Harry being injured, but Hermione found she secretly _liked_ taking care of Harry’s needs. His situation wasn’t life-threatening, his wounds cosmetic and on the mend. There was just something about the notion of _looking after Harry_ that Hermione found supremely satisfying.

And she was deeply covetous that this job was hers, and hers alone.

But there was still this new issue of the Lebensborn. Who were they? What new threat did they pose? The answer came from a most unexpected source.

It was as Hermione was helping Harry to drink his water that the door to the verandah opened. This was a second-floor balcony that looked out over the trout stream that flowed in front of the South face of the Blue Palace. Harry had chosen this as his recovery location of choice, basking in the sweeping vista that the view allowed.

The door opened and Catrin Granger walked in, carrying two mugs of steaming tea. Hermione may have dedicated herself to looking after Harry, but someone still had to look after _her,_ so her mother had assumed that mantle herself. She crossed the verandah to her daughter and her boyfriend, who was stretched out on one of the seven sun loungers arranged there. Between the middle loungers was a circular end table, and it was onto this that Catrin deposited the mugs of tea.

Also sat there, its onyx face gleaming in the afternoon sun, was the Lebensborn pin badge.

Catrin blinked in blatant surprise as she saw it. “Where did you get _that_?”

Her tone was one of such abject shock that Hermione forget her ministrations to Harry and turned to face her mother.

“You … do you know what that is?” Hermione breathed in disbelief.

Catrin nodded slowly, her eyes wide and startled. “I’ve seen the symbol before.”

“When? Where?” Hermione insisted briskly.

“Once, when I was on holiday in Germany … and again when we were going through your Grandparents things, when they emigrated after you were born.”

“What did you find?”

“Paperwork, documents, all things relating to Project Horizon,” Catrin explained, sitting down and sipping her tea in shaking fingers. “That symbol was everywhere - on letterheads, as a sort of postmark on envelopes, it seemed very official. I didn’t think much about it to be honest. That was until your father and I did a tour of some World War Two sites when we visited Germany some years ago.”

“World War Two?” Harry asked in his raspy voice. “As in _Muggle_ World War Two?”

Catrin nodded. “The same. We thought it was highly strange, too, knowing what we did about _Horizon_. We wanted to know how a symbol we associated with the magical world could be present in the _other_ world as well.

“It turns out, the worlds aren’t so far apart after all.”

“Explain, Mum, please,” Hermione implored.

“The symbol is that of something called the _Lebensborn._ Have you heard of that?”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a dark, loaded look, and nodded in unison.

“The Lebensborn were a product of Nazi Germany,” Catrin explained. “Part of the Aryan Agenda … to create a Master Race of pure, Germanic children. Officers of the SS were invited to impregnate women of pure Aryan stock, to produce offspring that fit the template the Nazis so desired. They were to be the next, perfect generation of The Third Reich. But how that came to be associated with Project Horizon is something I can only guess at.”

“Then let me fill in the blanks.”

Harry and Hermione looked around as the door to the verandah closed shut again. Regulus had slipped in unheard and was now crossing to them. He sat on the sun lounger opposite Harry and fixed them with his trademark gloomy stare.

“The Lebensborn, Project Horizon, other programmes around the world, they are all related, connected by one thing,” Regulus began. “A cabal of powerful people, who span the worlds of Magic and Muggle and whose agenda has never been quite fully understood. Suffice to say, world domination is at the heart of their intentions, but how they plan to achieve this has always remained a closely-guarded secret.”

“Then what are the Lebensborn?” Harry asked. “And how do they fit into all this?”

“It was the brainchild of this cabal, planted into the ideas of fascist leaders on both Magic and Muggle sides of the world,” Regulus went on. “For _us_ , the idea took root in the mind of Gellert Grindelwald during his monstrous reign in continental Europe. The Lebensborn were to be the elite core of his own personal army. With enhanced magical skill, and an unswerving devotion to _him,_ they were both feared and respected the world over.”

“Then he was _successful_?” Hermione hissed in horror.

Regulus nodded. “Far moreso than his Muggle counterparts. Magic allowed him to control the genetic enhancements in ways the Muggles could never have even dreamed of. Not only that, but he was able to manipulate growth and gestation periods, so that these children grew at abnormally accelerated rates. In many cases this led to mental deficiencies in test subjects, but as their loyalty was so complete the fact that they could all use a good lobotomy went unconsidered by Grindelwald and his leaders.”

“But he was defeated. Dumbledore _beat_ Grindelwald,” Harry pointed out. “That should have been the end of it, shouldn’t it?”

“Did the Nazi Book Burning torch all the ideas contained within?” Catrin asked gently. “It did not. I can only imagine that these concepts continued with Horizon and others.”

“Well deduced,” Regulus nodded. “And eventually they came under the attention of one Tom Riddle.”

“Dont tell me _Dumbledore_ told him!” Hermione shrieked angrily.

“Impossible to know,” Regulus replied fairly. “But even if he didn’t, Riddle would have found out via a second source.”

“What source?”

“Igor Karkaroff and his protege … Antonin Dolohov. Both were products of the Lebensborn programme. Indeed, Karkaroff used the knowledge as a bargaining chip to gain entry into the Death Eaters. Tom Riddle is deeply xenophobic, you know. There was no way he’d trust foreigners like either Karkaroff or Dolohov without there being something significant in it for him. The secrets of the Lebensborn was that fee.”

Harry closed his eyes. It explained a lot; Dolohov’s exceptional power level, his ability to create his own signature curse, these were not things the standard wizard was capable of. Clearly, Dolohov was not _standard_. It didn’t ease Harry’s worry.

Because he was worse … he was the new _template_. If he was ensconced at St Mungo's it made sense that he was at the heart of the genetics work going on there. Harry shuddered at the idea of an army of Dolohovs protecting Voldemort, enforcing his iron rule. It was a sobering thought.

“What happened to the others?” Hermione pressed. “The other Lebensborn? Karkaroff and Dolohov cant have been the only ones. Where did the others go?”

“Most came from institutions in Germany and satellite academies in the Ukraine and Bulgaria,” Regulus replied. “Durmstrang was the only one that survived the dismantling of Grindelwald’s infrastructure across Europe following his defeat.

“But the Lebensborn were too dangerous to go unchecked and unmonitored. Those that were deemed fit and sane enough were allowed to rejoin regular society, and many went on to form the famed _Zauber Geheimdeinst_ \- the most elite Special Forces unit of the military arm of the International Confederation of Wizards. Those guys _invented_ the term ‘badass’.”

 _Magical Special Forces_? Harry’s mind whirred a bit at that. But it did give him an idea, too …

* * *

“Go to Germany? Why?”

Harry frowned. Hermione wasn’t as euphorically keen about his idea as he expected her to be. It shook him slightly.

“Hermione, think about it,” Harry urged. “Just think … if we could get this _ZGD_ on side, it’d be a major weapon in our armoury! Elite fighting witches and wizards - it’s exactly what we need! Not only to fight with us, but to _teach_ us how to fight better. I think it’s a brilliant plan.”

“I think it’s foolhardy,” Hermione argued back. “You’re assuming that A - we could reach Europe and find them, and B - they would be willing to help us in any of the ways you think they might. You realise that if we invited a foreign military force to invade Britain we’d essentially be committing an Act of War … and one against our _own country_ at that!”

“We are already at war, or maybe we lost it before it started!” Harry volleyed back hotly. “Voldemort took over with barely a shot fired in anger. Now we have to find a way to get him out, before his regime to so entrenched that we may _never_ be shot of the snake-bothering bastard.”

“And you truly think this is the best way?”

“I’m looking at this like a guerilla-war now,” Harry explained, folding a shirt Hermione had tossed to him. They were attacking the mountain of Harry’s laundry he had finally gotten around to doing. “And don’t make any silly jokes about fighting with swinging tyres and bananas. I can see your cutesy little grin about to offer a comment along those lines.”

“Would I ever be so cheesy?” Hermione smirked. “ _Ooo-ooo_ do you think I am!”

“Ho ho,” Harry frowned in a bored voice, as Hermione laughed at him.

“Calling me a _hoe_ is a bit uncalled for!” Hermione teased. “I’m a perfectly honourable girl, I’ll have you know. Where did the love go between us?”

“It’s still there,” Harry grinned. “You’re just _my hoe_ , that’s all. And there’s merit in that!”

“True!” Hermione winked. “Now, this going to Germany scheme … I’m genuinely not sure about it, Harry.”

Then her mind was suddenly changed. For Neville raced into Harry’s cabin carrying a portable Wizarding Wireless set.

“You need to listen to this!” he panted, out of breath from a long sprint. “News from the ICW! It’s big.”

“What is it?” asked Harry.

“It’s the International Confederation of Wizards, Harry. But that’s not important right now. Just listen.”

Neville ignored Harry’s bemused expression and turned up the volume on the Wireless set. A news broadcast boomed out, announcing that the ICW had decided - in light of the unfavourable Governmental regime change in Britain - to close all borders to the Continent and recall its Ambassadors, essentially severing all political ties between Britain and Europe.

High Lord Voldemort, in response, had imposed a strict No-Travel ban on all citizens, closed off Apparition and Broom Ports to Europe, and ramped up the military presence on the South Coast. In addition, an OAF (Overseas Auxiliary Force) made up mostly of combat-ready wizards from America and Australia, had begun flooding in to special Apparition sites in London and Birmingham.

There was now a wall of cold tension between Britain and Europe … all divided by just twenty-six miles of water that was the English Channel.

Neville sat back, visibly shaken as he turned the Wireless off. “What … what does this mean? Has it _actually_ started, now? Are we _at war_?”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other. The grim answer was reflected in the expression of the other.

“It would seem so,” Hermione muttered somewhat mutely, flopping down into a nearby chair and wringing one of Harry’s t-shirts anxiously in her palms. “It feels weird, doesn’t it? Now it’s finally official.”

Harry nodded as he agreed. There was something different about the air, as though nature herself was holding her breath. For a while the three of them just sat there absorbing the change, as though saturated by this new oppressive feeling.

Then Harry turned to Hermione. “You still think leaving is a bad idea? Still don’t see the merit in connecting with Europe … to remind them that there are still _some_ decent people here, ones willing to fight against Voldemort and the Americans?”

Hermione sighed deeply and closed her eyes. “No, you’re right, Harry. You were right in the first place. We are a Resistance Movement now, and our war is an underground one. If we _are_ going to Set Britain Alight, we’ll have to do it from the shadows now. And we need to find people who can help us do that. Contact Amelie Flamel … we will need a new way into Europe if Voldemort has the Channel locked down.”

* * *

But it was not simply travel that Voldemort had locked down. Magical communication of any kind across the Channel was now being strictly filtered, will all messages being redirected to a listening hub in London before being sent on, if they were forwarded at all. Even COMPACT - the message system developed by Enola’s father for secret military communication, and which Harry had been using to connect to Amelie in France - had been ruthlessly shut down under this new directive.

It made everything that much harder now.

Though it also made Harry and Hermione’s mission of vital importance, something Regulus reinforced as they made their final preparations to leave.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” he warned them. “You are going to have to travel as Muggles, use Muggle money and technology, and just hope Voldemort has overlooked such things in his arrogance. It would be a difficult ask for most magicals.”

“Mr Black, Harry and I both came from the Muggle world,” Hermione reminded him pointedly. “We are as comfortable with buses and phones as we are with brooms and the Floo Network. We’ll be fine.”

“Of course, forgive me,” Regulus returned. “But have either of you ever flown before … in the Muggle method?”

“I have, plenty of times,” Hermione replied. “My parents used to take me to Europe for skiing holidays quite often. I know how to navigate my way around an airport.”

Harry was glad of this fact, as he was unaccountably nervous at the prospect of his first flight in an aeroplane. He would never confess as much to Hermione, but he felt a jittery sort of anxiety whenever he thought about it. He was infinitely thankful that Hermione would be there to hold his hand through the experience, then laugh with him when he realised he was worrying over nothing.

For they had agreed the safest and most inconspicuous was to reach Europe now was to travel as Muggles. They had considered using the Ratway, but both agreed that there would be an exodus of refugees right away, and there would be a time when their own secret escape route would be far more vital than for mass fleeing at the outbreak of war.

So they had arranged for passage on a commuter flight from Cardiff Airport to Berlin, and a combination of train, river travel and buses to reach there from the safety of the Blue Palace. But apart from themselves and their recruitment mission, Harry and Hermione were now carrying important cargo, too.

“What’s this?” Harry asked, as Regulus thrust a thin, plastic and glass device into his hand.

“It’s Muggle high-tech,” Regulus explained. “They call them _SmartPhones_. Essentially they are communication devices, but they do so much more. They can access maps, information over the Internet, record video and audio. They are handy little things.”

“But Regulus,” Harry began doubtfully. “Aren't you forgetting? Mobile phones don’t work around magic. It shorts them out.”

“Ah yes, but we’ve found a work-around,” Regulus grinned. “Long ago, some clever Muggle thought about putting phones in boxes, for communication in public. As so many ideas are being re-purposed these days, we’ve modified _this_ one. The covers the phones are encased in have been specially spelled to essentially _repel_ low-level magical fields and forces.

“You’ll be able to use them as Muggles do, but the covers also resize into _actual_ phoneboxes, ones imbued with all sorts of stealth and concealment enchantments. If you need to contact us, use the phoneboxes for an extra layer of security. We have one installed here at the Gardens, and it will be monitored twenty-four hours a day, should you need to get in touch.

“I’ve given you two phones. Keep one for your own use and give the other to Amelie. It should be safe to contact her via EuroFloo once you arrive in Berlin. Don’t hesitate to connect with her, to fill her in on what is happening here. Explain how the phones work and that will be our new method of communication with her and the ICW.”

Then, with final packing complete and a raft of ‘good lucks’ exchanged, Harry and Hermione slipped out of the border protection of the Halcyon Gardens into the rugged, open terrain of the wild Welsh countryside.

The first target was Torpantau Railway Station, the final stop on the Brecon Mountain Heritage Railway line. This narrow gauge steam railway was mostly for tourists looking for a vintage travel experience, and was way off the beaten track. After an hour or so trekking through the lush valley and rich woodland of the Brecon Beacons National Park, Harry and Hermione emerged onto the platform and mingled with the swell of pleasure seekers, looking for all the world like nothing more than a couple of enamoured teenagers, who had simply slipped into the wild foliage for a naughty roll around until the steam train rolled around.

Harry thought there was _plenty_ of merit in that idea, so he pocketed it for another day.

From Torpantau it was a short, but ultimately enjoyable, little ride along the old railway to Pant station down at the other end. A quick taxi then took them along a busy Muggle road to the small town of Cefn Coed-y-Cwmmer. Here they were due to switch modes of transport again, transferring to a canal barge for passage along what remained of the Aberdare and Glamorganshire canals, then out onto the mighty River Taff which would lead them right into the heart of Cardiff.

Harry and Hermione met up with their boatman at the Canal Head lock. He was a gnarled old water dog with more beard than exposed skin, who eyed Harry suspiciously until they exchanged the secret handshake that Regulus had taught him. Either that, or the thick wad of twenty pound notes Harry pressed into his bunionned hands did the trick.

Whatever the cause, Harry and Hermione were soon ducked safely beneath the narrowboat’s deck and they were on their way. Hermione cosied up to Harry on the many-times mended cushion of an old window bench, as they enjoyed mugs of hot tea the boatman had made them. They were saturated by the sweet, floral smell of the river reeds, of the lingering aroma of grilled steak from the small cooking range, and by the occasional waft of steam from the barge’s engine as the narrowboat swayed slightly on its path through the water.

“This is nice,” Hermione purred, snuggling in tight. “I hope all our adventures are like this from now on.”

Harry kissed the crown of her head and just enjoyed Hermione being so close. She was so warm, and the peony notes of her shampoo filled his nostrils. It was just about as content as Harry could be.

All too soon, though, they were hoisting themselves from the depths of the narrowboat cabin and into the startling bright streets of Cardiff.

“The Central Bus station is just behind the stadium,” the boatman informed them. “There is a regular bus service to the airport from there. Good luck.”

And with another secret handshake, the boatman headed back to his charge and gunned her back along the river the way they’d come.

“Just us now, then,” Harry offered bracingly, as he guided Hermione up a small path that led to the gargoyle-lined walls of Cardiff Castle.

“Since when has _that_ ever been a hindrance?” Hermione grinned back.

“Not any time in _my_ memory,” Harry smirked back. “Come on. The bus station is just down this road according to the road signs.

And indeed it was. Harry and Hermione had a short wait for the next bus to leave, so Hermione bought their tickets from a conductor while Harry treated them to a sausage roll and an iced bun from a bakers nearby. They ate in comfortable silence before boarding the bus, with just one other traveller joining them for the hour or so trip to Cardiff Airport.

Now Harry had never been to an airport before, and he was fascinated by all the aircraft lined up in the holding area as they arrived. Hermione pointed out that Cardiff Airport was _tiny_ compared to behemoths like Heathrow, but Harry was still as starry-eyed as a child as they entered the concourse and checked-in. They had only carry-on baggage, so the process was rather swift, though both Harry and Hermione were confused by having to put their liquids into little bags as they passed through security.

“It’s because of _terrorism_ ,” Hermione breathed, as she looked up the information on the Smart Phone Regulus had given them. She was keen to master its use as quickly as possible and took every opportunity to whip the little handset out of her pocket.

“Terrorism?” Harry queried. “What do you mean?”

“It’s to stop people using liquids as explosives, you know, to blow up planes.”

Harry nearly choked on his block of Toblerone. Hermione had said the last bit in such a blasé voice that she might have been talking about something as mundane as why bobble hats have bobbles.

“B-blow up?” Harry mumbled. “Is that … _common_?”

Hermione looked up at him gently, genuinely surprised. “Oh no, air travel is very safe. But, I suppose, you never can be _too_ careful with such things, can you?”

Harry shuddered a little as he agreed. This conversation was doing nothing to ease his nerves. He sucked deeply on the straw from the fast food meal they were eating, trying not to imagine what would happen if their plane exploded and blew the wings off or something. He wondered if every chair came with its own parachute? It probably did, that would make sense. If anything _did_ go wrong, he could just float down. From twenty thousand feet. Through clouds. And birds, and other planes.

Suddenly, Harry wasn’t sure he could board at all.

But then their flight was called. Hermione leapt up, clearly excited about this form of travel. Harry found this odd, as he was reasonably convinced that Hermione had a crippling fear of heights. Maybe, he reasoned, she didn’t mind being in an aeroplane so long as she couldn’t see out … and see how far away the floor was.

This was confirmed as they joined the queue to board, with Hermione telling Harry strictly, and in no uncertain terms, that _she_ was having the aisle seat. Harry bracingly accepted, realising that if the plane _did_ go down, at least he could watch the ground out of the window as it came close to smashing him in the face …

“Tickets, please,” the lady at the gate asked pleasantly, jolting Harry from his anxious reverie. Hermione handed them over. The attendant looked at the tickets, then at Harry and Hermione's young faces with a blatantly judgemental expression. “ _Mr and Mrs Potter_ , yes? Passports, please.”

Harry shot a stunned look at Hermione, who blushed hotly and didn’t return his gaze. He had left it to her to arrange their new travel documents, and then _she_ had insisted on carrying them, as Harry had a frightful habit of losing things. Harry continued to smirk at Hermione’s back as the check-in attendant informed them they’d be in seats 7A and 7B, then wished them a pleasant flight as they took the air bridge into the aircraft.

“ _Mr and Mrs Potter_?” Harry quirked as they stowed their bags and sat down. “You kept that quiet. I’d have at least hoped to _be_ at my own wedding, you know!”

“Dont be daft, Harry!” Hermione fired back, flushing so much she was practically glowing. “It just seemed easier. If anyone’s following us they wont be looking for a married couple, will they?”

“Well you managed to deceive _me_ ,” Harry teased. “So I cant argue with your logic.”

“You sound like this is an affront,” Hermione huffed crossly. “What’s the matter … don’t you _like_ the idea of being married to me? Do you really mind that I've done this?”

For a moment, Hermione faltered, perhaps wondering if Harry did, indeed, _mind_. But he moved swiftly to dispel such nonsense.

“Of course I don’t _mind_ , silly,” Harry reassured her, squeezing her hand. “I’m just gutted that I missed our wedding night! I was quite looking forward to _that_!”

“Shut up, Harry!” Hermione grinned, poking his arm playfully.

“I would advise you _both_ keep your voices down … you don’t know who may be listening.”

A man sitting opposite across the aisle was suddenly addressing them in a low tone. He looked up swiftly, to check the activities of the cabin crew, then leant over as far as he could.

“You are being followed … Mr and Mrs _Potter_.”

“How do you know?” asked Harry leaning across Hermione from his window seat, his playful mood vanishing in an instant.

“And who are you?” Hermione added.

“My name is Owain Glyndwr Jones, I head up the Wales Chapter of Brompton Road. Caul Roth sent me to watch you or, more specifically, to watch the _ones_ watching you.”

Owain looked darkly along the plane, to a passenger Harry couldn’t see. He made to sit up and look but Owain hissed at him.

“Dont draw attention to yourself! Right now, all that’s happened is that you have been tailed this far. We need to keep it that way until we land in Berlin.”

“And what will happen then?” Harry asked.

Owain’s expression clouded over darkly. “You leave that to us. Don’t concern yourself with the details.”

Harry shuddered at the bluntness of the inference.

“Then what _should_ we concern ourselves with?” asked Hermione.

“Just enjoy the flight, and try to prepare yourself for the political sphere you are about to enter on the other side of the Channel.”

To help them with this purpose, Owain would occasionally talk to them as the flight progressed. And what intoxicating talk it was! Talk of intrigues and seductions, of alliances and enmities between Rome and Berlin and Beijing, about the rise of magical warlords in Central Africa and a blossoming new drugs trade emanating from South America. It certainly helped distract Harry from the discomfort of his popping ears, though he relied on Hermione to absorb most of the information as he was sure he had gone temporarily deaf.

Then they were landing at Berlin Schönefeld Airport. Owain bade them a final farewell and darted off first, lingering around the security area as Harry and Hermione passed through the Border Control checkpoints. Even though they had no business in the baggage reclaim area, Hermione insisted they loiter there a moment to see what happened.

They didn’t have to wait long. Owain, joined by three other hefty men, slowly and innocuously approached a bland-looking middle-aged man, who Hermione quickly recognised as being the only other person who had travelled with them on the bus from Cardiff to the airport. Firm hands were placed on his shoulders, whispers were subtly exchanged and the man’s whole body visibly sagged as he was escorted away, seemingly lacking the will to resist even slightly.

“I’m not sure whether to be happy about that or not,” Hermione muttered darkly, as they watched the man be frog-marched through an unmarked side door by his new entourage. “What do you think will happen to him?”

“I’d rather _not_ think about it,” Harry hushed back gravely. “That’s not our problem now. Come on, let’s find our hotel and contact Amelie, then maybe we can get some bratwurst. I don’t know about you, but I’m _starving_.”

* * *

The Television Tower at the heart of what was East Berlin stood proud and majestic against the darkening sky. The greyish clouds were underscored by a layer of brilliant pink as the sun set in the distance. Harry marvelled at the huge sphere atop the Tower as he looked at it, imagining how stunning the view must be from up there.

“You know, I can never remember the rhyme,” Harry commented to Hermione as they strolled hand-in-hand through the balmy Berlin night. “ _Red Sky at night - Angel Delight. Red Sky in the morning_ … what?”

Hermione giggled merrily at Harry and pulled him close. “Firstly, it’s not _angel delight,_ but _shepherd’s delight_. Angel Delight is that strawberry dessert we probably both had as kids!”

“Oh … yeah,” Harry blushed coyly, as Hermione tucked in close with another sweet giggle and kissed his cheek consolingly. “Though _I_ didn’t have Angel Delight as a kid … I made it enough times for Dudley, though. I would probably be seen as an enabler for his obesity in this day and age. Where did this blame and litigation culture come from, eh?”

“Who knows,” Hermione shrugged. “But, to get back to the rhyme, its: _red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning_. It was supposed to denote impending rain, but I think that was just superstitious nonsense. It’s Britain … rain is possible _anytime_. The colour of the sky has nothing to do with it!”

“Speaking of the sky, keep an eye out for one of Amelie’s bats,” Harry reminded her. “She should have arranged a meeting with that Lebensborn scientist by now. What was his name, did she say?”

“Dr Joachim Pfieffer,” Hermione recited. Then she looked at Harry studiously. “Harry … if _you_ had the choice, do you think you’d change anything about yourself, or modify your children? The way the Lebensborn and Horizon people did?”

Harry considered his answer carefully. It was so fraught and loaded a question that he knew he had to tread delicately before replying.

“Do you mean, ‘would I change _our_ children’ - if we ever have them? Is that what you’re _actually_ asking?”

“It’s not _that_ unreasonable.”

“No, but you’re asking a _lot_ of different things. And you _know_ it. Just tell me what you really want to know.”

Hermione swallowed hard and looked over at Harry, searching his face deeply.

“Well, I suppose, do you think … I mean, would you … ever _want_ to have children … with me, I mean?”

There was something like _terror_ in Hermione’s tone, and Harry couldn’t fathom the source of it. He was desperate not to answer this in the wrong way, so he tried to keep his voice light and jaunty.

“It’s a bit of a big question, isn’t it? And a bit soon, considering I’ve only just found out today that we’re married!”

“Harry!” Hermione moaned, swatting at him. “I’m being serious.”

“I know, and that concerns me,” Harry replied honestly.

“Concerns you? What an odd thing to say.”

“Not really,” Harry disagreed. “You’re asking if I want to have children with you some day. If I say yes, I might be putting massive pressure on you. Not only because I’d be admitting that I’d love to commit my life to you, commit so deeply and utterly that I want to _create_ life with you, but also that I basically want to have kids someday. And maybe you don’t, and you might be scared off because I do. And that’s the _last_ thing I want.

“Then you’re asking if I’d want to change anything about our babies if we did have children. And what would I change? You might see anything I say as me finding fault with _you -_ though I hope by now that I’ve made it blatantly obvious that I don’t think you _have_ any faults - when I’d be more likely talking about myself. Would I want my kids to have my poor eyesight, or my knobbly knees? Probably not. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Hermione had indeed come over rather dreamy. “It’s nothing. It’s just that you said _our babies_ and my heart missed a beat. I didn’t expect it to.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Hermione smiled. “The butterflies in my stomach don’t, either. I suppose I’ve just never _seriously_ thought about having a family much before. But when you said _our babies_ , and I thought about _our family_ , I went a bit senseless for a moment there. Good senseless, though.”

“Then you would?” Harry asked cautiously. “Want a family, I mean. You know … with me?”

Hermione didn’t reply with words, she simply leaned over and kissed Harry so deeply he was swept with hot senselessness himself. She broke away with a shy little smile.

“Well, you’ve admitted that you want to commit your life to me, so I think _I’m_ safe to admit now that I’d _love_ to commit to you right back, then have children with you someday. Sometime down the line, when we’ve made the world safe enough for them. You’ve committed now, Harry. You cant change your mind!”

Harry laughed at her and drew her flush to him. Then his heart lodged in his throat. “Y-you know … that sounds awfully like an _engagement_ promise!”

“I’m really glad you think so, too. That’s _sort of_ what I was aiming for!”

Hermione giggled beautifully and hugged Harry as tight as she was able. He was too mindless to think or speak, or do much more than thread his fingers through Hermione’s hair and try not to sway drunkenly as they walked.

“You can buy me a ring when we defeat Voldemort,” Hermione whispered. “That will be our promise to each other for now. I don’t want a rushed, just-in-case courtship and wedding like Bill and Fleur. I want a real future ahead of us, and that means righting the wrongs in our world first. You’ll help me do that, wont you, Harry?”

Harry still couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words to express the myriad of things chasing each other around in his mind just then. Hermione seemed to understand, as she always did, and that was answer enough. She hugged him tighter still, and they basked in their companionable silence.

And right there, on the banks of the River Spree, a Covenant between Harry Potter and Hermione Granger was wordlessly signed … and be damned all those who would dare to oppose it.


	5. A Manchurian Candidate

** **

**Disclaimer:** Triggering themes, mention of torture, character death, dark tropes. You have been warned.

***

David Granger watched as Neville Longbottom spoon-fed soup to his father, who was practically catatonic. The boy was so patient and delicate that David was instantly aware that this was a well-practiced skill. It raised a hundred questions in his mind, and in typical Granger-style he just had to satiate his desire for knowledge.

"How did it happen?" David asked, looking over the rim of his coffee cup.

Neville turned his eyes on Hermione's father, perhaps startled by the brusqueness of the enquiry. Oddly, he found he didn't mind the asking. It was better than stupidly pretending that everything was normal. Neville just wasn't sure how much he should reveal to the potential future in-laws of Harry Potter.

If he said something that scared them too much, they might try and stop Hermione seeing Harry, and then they _both_ might try and kill Neville for his indiscretion.

But in the end, he decided Mr and Mrs Granger must be as reasonable and sensible as Hermione, so it was safe to be honest with them.

"They ... they were tortured," Neville stated blandly. "During the last magical War, the one that Harry's parents were killed in."

"Tortured?" Catrin Granger hissed angrily. "By whom?"

"One of Lord Voldemort's most fanatical supporters," Minerva McGonagall replied for Neville, who had hurried to dab up a bubble of spittle that had appeared in the corner of his father's mouth. "A sadistic witch named Bellatrix Lestrange was primarily responsible. She is amongst the darkest of our kind ... and proud of being so."

"That's terrible," David ground out. "But ... they don't look _physically_ impaired ..."

"Dont let looks deceive you, Mr Granger," Minerva responded lowly. "Magical torture does physical damage deep below the surface, in places that make it infinitely more difficult to treat. The Cruciatus Curse leaves marks that burn as much as any scorch iron, causes wounds deeper than any knife cut. It is a truly heinous spell."

Enola, sat close to Neville, squeezed his forearm consolingly as he set his jaw, too angered to think of anything to say. So Enola decided to speak for him, to disclose the worst aspect of the Longbottom's torture, for Neville had confided it all to her, the first person he ever trusted enough to be so intimately open with.

"But it wasn't just the body that Nev's parents were assaulted on, it was their _minds_ , too," Enola began. "We can only guess the horrors that were visited on them as their thoughts were twisted and contorted, but it drove them to this state. It may have been the only way for them to survive."

"Sounds like they became _Manchurian Candidates_ ," David mused.

"Excuse me?" Minerva quizzed. "What exactly is a Manchurian Candidate?"

David perked up in his seat, pleased that he was able to impart some of his knowledge to these magical people. The flow of information was always going in the other direction, far too often in his opinion. David was keen to redress that particular balance.

"I had some friends back in the Seventies who went into military service in the Medical Corps," David began. "A couple of them were drafted into special programmes studying mental manipulation, to give soldiers an advantage in combat. Longer waking hours, greater alertness and attention spans, that sort of thing.

"Well, _one_ of them even went to the States, to be part of something called MK Ultra. They were experimenting in _mind control_ , if you can believe that. One of the concepts was of something they dubbed 'Manchurian Candidates'. The idea was, as I understood it, to create a split personality in a test subject, a _sleeper_ personality if you will. This personality could then, essentially, be _programmed_ to carry out all sorts of tasks. Mostly 'wet work _'_ I imagine."

"Wet work?" Minerva asked.

"Murder, political assassinations, that sort of thing," David clarified. "The split personality was the perfect cover. The sleeper persona was awoken by a key word, carried out the mission, then the cover personality returned. Under questioning, they'd have no memory of what they had done or who had ordered it. I think they call it _plausible deniability_."

"How do you know all this?" asked Neville, who was listening curiously to the story.

"Well, my friend told me a little, but he was under strict confidentially agreements not to disclose very much," David explained. Then he coloured slightly. "But there was a brilliant novel and film all about it. I really enjoyed them both, it was fascinating stuff."

"But how does that relate to my parents?" Neville pressed. "How could the torture they endured have made them into these Mandarin Candidates?"

" _Manchurian_ Candidates," David corrected patiently. "And in the stories, one of the ways to _create_ a split personality was through the use of torture. The human brain can only process so much pain, and it is often the case - under prolonged assault - that a second persona is created, essentially as a coping mechanism. It detracts the mental aspect from the physical torture, allowing the mind to survive."

Neville blinked at the possibility this threw up. "So, these Candidate things created a new personality to survive?"

"Yes."

"But the original personality remained, just somewhere hidden inside?"

"That was the idea. And there is solid science to prove it is entirely plausible."

"Why, Nev?" asked Enola. "What are you thinking?"

"Ennie what if ... now hear me out ... what if my parents _did_ do that somehow?" Neville replied, exuberantly. "Either by choice or by accident? What if _they_ created spilt personalities, and we are just seeing the new ones they needed to protect them from the torture? What if the _real_ them is trapped inside their heads, just waiting for someone to bring them back to the surface?"

"It's possible, I suppose," Enola mused deeply. "But how would you get down to the hidden personality? Even with magic you'd need someone with seriously adept mental powers."

Almost in unison, Neville and Enola turned their heads to look at Celesca, sitting in a bay window with a blanket around her. She looked pale and drawn, thin from lack of food as she had no appetite. She turned her tired eyes back to look at her friend and her boyfriend.

If any of them had stopped to consider it, they'd have noticed that Celesca's eyes were no longer swirling, though none of them could have guessed why.

"Could you do that, Cesc?" Enola asked, excitedly. "It's right in your remit."

"Maybe," Celesca replied wearily. "But I've never done anything like that before. I don't know how dangerous it might be, to me or to them."

"But could you at least see if they are still in there? In their heads, I mean," Neville asked feverishly. "You could do that, couldn't you?"

"Yes, probably," Celesca returned lowly. Then she turned to look back out of the window, staring hard as though looking into the furthest distance she could see. Then she spoke again, and her voice sounded equally distant. "But I cant do it now. I'm too tired. And you are taking your parents out to get some air in the Valley, aren't you? You should do that. Take Hermione's parents, too. I'm sure they'd like to see the views ..."

"Later, then?" Enola asked, cocking a curious glance at her friend.

"Later," Celesca replied. But she still didn't look at any of them.

* * *

At about the same time Neville was enjoying this new bubble of hope about his parents, Harry and Hermione was sat in a private medical office in Charlottenburg. That morning they'd taken a walk in the sunshine, beneath the Brandenburg Gate and Reichstag building, where Hermione had taken awkward pictures of them using the camera on the Smartphone. They ate salted pretzels from a stand on Under den Linden, and looked at the memorial of the famous Book Burnings outside the Humboldt University.

It was a sobering start to the day, and things didn't promise to improve as they met the Master of the Lebensborn.

Dr Joachim Pfieffer was a shrewd, clever sort of wizard. He practiced Muggle medicine as well as the Magical variety because - in his words - ' _there was more money in it'._ His office had a raft of certificates pinned to the walls, as well as records of his many achievements in genetics and DNA study.

Evidence of his advances in the field of magical eugenics was curiously absent.

"You must think me a terrible man," Dr Pfieffer was saying. "For all the heinous things you imagine I did. Try to understand, not all of us are blessed with the foresight to see what men like Gellert Grindelwald and Tom Riddle intend to use our research for. And by the time we find out, it is often too late - or too dangerous - to change course."

Harry scoffed at that and Hermione narrowed her eyes in mirrored response. It occurred to Harry as he looked at the Bavarian wizard that he looked remarkably _young_ for someone who had ridden alongside the great Grindelwald. He wondered if he had used his aged-defying and life-extension magic on himself. It seemed very likely.

"It is never too late to do the right thing," Hermione disagreed.

"You think that, young witch," Dr Pfieffer smiled. "It is easy to say, when you have never had to make that choice."

" _Excuse me_!" Hermione shrieked indignantly. "But I made that choice when I was just twelve years old! When it became clear that Lord Voldemort would _never_ stop trying to return, and when he did we'd _all_ have to make the choice ... between what was right and what was easy. I chose Harry Potter. I pinned my flag to _his_ mast a long, long time ago. Your excuse is as flimsy as water in a sieve."

The Doctor coloured at the stinging rebuke. Harry coloured, too, but only in his shy reticence. He didn't deserve this girl and her powerful, unswerving faith in him. What had he done to be blessed with such fortune?

"You are right, of course," Dr Pfieffer sighed, cleaning his rimless glasses with a cloth from his desk. "But I was seduced, as many others were, by the promise of working for The Greater Good. It was a convincing rhetoric, and I was swept up."

"What did Grindelwald have you do?" Harry asked.

"I pioneered his Lebensborn programme," Dr Pfieffer explained. "We schooled together at Durmstrang, and though he was always gifted he never seemed to possess these grandiose ideas. Then in our last year, he competed in the Triwizard Tournament. He wanted to test his skills against the well-renowned Albus Dumbledore from Hogwarts. But it was Amelie Flamel of Beauxbatons who took the Tournament by storm. She would have won ... but Grindelwald seduced her in a very _different_ way, and she threw the Final Task in his favour, allowing him to triumph.

"Then, that Summer, Gellert visited England. When he came back he was ... _different_. He had changed in such a fundamental way that I barely recognised him as the young man I knew. But he recruited me early, as we had always been so close. He had an aura about him, a sort of magnetism. I was in his sway from almost the earliest time of our friendship.

"By the time I realised what it was I was doing, I couldn't rebel against him. He had placed Hit Wizards near my family, threatened them if I stopped working or failed to deliver on my projects. Having your loved ones so blatantly targeted and used against you is a terror I hope you never have to experience, Miss Granger."

Hermione looked at Harry and slipped her hand into his. He returned her shuddering gaze, knowing plainly that she was imagining horrors against the theoretical children they had been discussing a few nights ago.

"So, what _did_ you do, Doctor?" Harry asked.

"Back in the early decades of the century, eugenics was _everywhere_ ," Dr Pfieffer began. "Try to understand, it was a mainstream and legitimate study. It didn't carry the stigma it does today. And the concepts were, in many ways, _noble._ Create a stronger, healthier type of human. All life is precious - of course it is - but I don't know of _any_ parent who would wish their child to be born with physical or mental defects or deformities. Not only that, but is it ethical to _allow_ such children to be born, if the defects can be stopped at source?"

"Life must be allowed to develop naturally and unfettered," Hermione disagreed. "Who are _you_ to play God?"

"I am a scientist and physician, lets keep the nonsense of religion out of this," Dr Pfieffer volleyed back curtly. "If there _were_ a God he would have to be the cruellest of deities, to allow his own creations to suffer with mental and physical ailments. Not only that, science has allowed for children in couples that 'nature' would deny this miracle to. The infertile, the underdeveloped, the wounded or sick. Would _you_ deny this to them, Miss Granger?"

"We are not here to debate the ethics of this," Harry cut in harshly.

"But ethics is at the heart of the matter, my boy," Dr Pfieffer shot back. "It is my belief that science and medicine is a force for good, in both Magic and Muggle worlds. So when Gellert asked me to help create a perfect specimen of wizard I was drawn in. I thought it was _ethically_ right that I should do so, in the hope that what I saw as the unfortunate defects in some might be eradicated. That if I could enable that, it would be a worthwhile endeavour.

"I didn't see the _other side_ of things ... that Gellert wanted to eliminate those Magicals who _already_ had these deficiencies. The genocide he attempted was ... soul-destroying."

Dr Pfieffer looked away into the distance, as though hoping time itself could erase the memories he carried. It could not.

"You managed to do it, didn't you?" Harry went on quietly. "You created the _Lebensborn_?"

Dr Pfieffer nodded. "At first, it was all rather natural. The most powerful wizards and witches Gellert could recruit, all equally taken by his rhetoric as I, volunteered to the programme. They essentially agreed to _breed_ the new race. But it wasn't enough for Gellert. He wanted the magic enhanced, the children _grown_ faster. We had to develop new magic just to satisfy his fervour.

"Sperm and Eggs were harvested from the volunteers, manipulated, then planted into wombs of witches that were not only powerful, but fit a certain _physical_ template that Gellert favoured. He scoured Europe for suitable surrogates. Some came willingly, others ... well, I don't think I need to explain what happened to _them_."

"They were _forced_?" Hermione breathed in horror. "No!"

"By the hundred," Dr Pfieffer confirmed grimly. "Some were implanted with the enhanced foetuses, others were simply used to create a _lower_ class of 'worker wizard'. All within the physical template, but impregnated in a more natural way, albeit against their will."

"There is nothing natural about _rape_!" Harry cried angrily.

"No ... quite," Dr Pfieffer agreed quietly. "But it was not for us to protest ... and the punishment for those who did was _extreme_. Wives and daughters forced into the breeding programme, murdered if their children weren't born to the ideal template. It was a ... dark time."

Harry sat back and fumed furiously, his heart rampant in his chest and throbbing at his temples.

"But, then Dumbledore beat Grindelwald and ended his reign," Hermione continued, her voice shaky with her own fury. "What happened then?"

"It was an uncertain situation. Nobody knew quite how Dumbledore beat Grindelwald, as Gellert was said to possess a famous Unbeatable Wand. But Dumbledore managed it, then the ICW was established to promote greater interaction and relationships between nations, in the hope of preventing another war.

"Gellert's infrastructure was ruthlessly dismantled piece-by-piece. It was only on Dumbledore's pleading that Durmstrang was allowed to survive."

"And the Lebensborn?" Hermione pushed firmly.

"Institutionalised, for the most part," Dr Pfieffer confessed. "It turned out that in our attempts to eradicate known defects, we unwittingly _created_ others. Many Lebensborn died due to unforeseen complications in their genetic make-up. Those that did survive were _truly_ the elite Gellert had dreamed of.

"Some drifted into regular society. Many wanted to keep low profiles, understandably, so hid their pasts relentlessly. Others, like Igor Karkaroff, merely waited for a new Dark Lord to rise, who they deemed worthy of their skills and mettle."

"Like Voldemort?" Harry spat bitterly.

"Exactly. Igor took a brilliant young Ukrainian with him, Antonin Dolohov. He's _second generation_ Lebensborn - both parents came from the programme. It's made him singularly gifted, and fiercely dangerous."

"We know," Harry and Hermione chimed.

"He nearly killed me when I was sixteen," Hermione cleared up. Harry paled at the mere mention of the memory. "But what about the others? We were told they formed the ZGD?"

"And many did," the Doctor nodded. "The man you want to find is Dietmar Friedrich, he heads up the unit these days. Another second generation Lebensborn. He's the only one, apparently, that Dolohov wouldn't want to meet in battle. They knew each other as kids, and Didi was a nemesis of sorts of Dolohov. If you can get to Friedrich, he'd be a useful ally."

"Do you think he'd help us then?" asked Harry, hopefully.

"I'd bet money on it," Dr Pfieffer replied. "After all, Dolohov used Didi's parents when he created his Horcruxes ... one of only a few people Voldemort taught that sick magic to, apparently ..."

* * *

Finding Captain Friedrich, it turned out, would be no easy task. He was an elusive character at the best of times, and was currently on an undercover mission in Ljubljana and there was no time frame for his return.

Harry and Hermione stayed just one more day in Berlin, under the pretence that Amelie's plea to the ICW - to arrange for a meeting or message exchange with Captain Friedrich - might yield results. But when Amelie, herself, turned up unexpectedly to join them for a drink at a trendy new cafe bar on Oranienburgstrasse, the news was disappointing. The Captain couldn't be reached, but they had a nice dinner and drink and Amelie provided them with plane tickets back to Britain.

The return journey was far more subdued than the original had been. The news that Dolohov and others may have also created Horcruxes was yet another problem that Harry and Hermione wished they didn't have to contend with.

"You know, I'm surprised he shared that secret," Harry mused, as they walked back through the woodlands of the Brecon Beacons, having left the Heritage Railway some time before. "You'd think he'd keep that to himself."

"Actually, I _wouldn't,"_ Hermione countered. "Tom Riddle strikes me as an arrogant sort of wizard, one who craves attention. He'd _want_ people to know he'd achieved something so advanced as Horcrux creation, as if to validate his own omnipotence. At least in the eyes of his followers."

"Bit like Dumbledore, then," Harry riled.

"Yeah, a bit," Hermione nodded. "I think they are more alike then we ever considered."

"Who else do you think knows about Horcruxes, then? Who else might have made them?"

"Well, Lucius Malfoy had the diary," Hermione began. "I cant believe he didn't know what it was, or what it could do, before he planted it into Ginny's cauldron."

"Dont say things like that," Harry moaned darkly. "After all we leaned from Dr Pfieffer, _planting things in Ginny's cauldron_ sounds like a euphemism I'd rather not have a mental image of!"

"Fair point," Hermione conceded, going a bit green herself. "Sorry."

"So ... Malfoy, maybe. Who else?"

"I'd have to think Bella Lestrange," Hermione offered. "She'd have Tom Riddle's babies tomorrow, if only he'd stop fiddling with snakes long enough to shag her."

Harry guffawed at that. "What a phrase! I'll have to write that one down! And to think it came from your mouth!"

"Like I always say, you're a terrible influence on me," Hermione laughed back. "So that's three possibilities - Malfoy, Lestrange, Dolohov. That's _more_ than enough to lose sleep over!"

They emerged from a clearing in the trees as they considered the grim reality facing them. Persuading Voldemort to re-fuse his soul, assuming they managed to coax him into The Alchemist's Cell somehow, was a tough enough task in itself. Finding and eliminating an ever-growing list of his minions' Horcruxes was just like a kick in the face on top of that.

"Oh, it looks like they are having a bonfire at the Palace," Hermione commented brightly, nodding at a plume of smoke rising from the direction of the Halcyon Gardens. "Maybe Amelie told them we were on the way home."

"Hermione?" Harry frowned as he watched the embers rise over the trees ahead. "Isn't the Gardens supposed to be hidden by the Celtic protections?"

"It is," Hermione agreed.

"Then why would they be drawing attention to themselves by sending up - what is essentially - a _smoke signal_?"

Hermione looked quizzically at Harry, then their expressions fell as the conclusion came to them both at the same time.

The place was _under attack_.

Harry and Hermione were at full pelt before they knew it. The only sound was their own ragged breathing, the pounding of their feet on the parched earth. They raced over a hillock, down the other side and into the ancient woodland that ringed the Halcyon Gardens.

And the wretched view emerged before them.

The house was ablaze, parts of the ramparts smashed and broken in the decimated courtyard. There were no screams, no yells or frantic calls, just the crackle of the fire burning away in the ruins. But there was another sound, too. An eerie, ominous sort of creaking that permeated the silent air.

"W-what is that?" Hermione panted, clutching at a stitch in her side.

Harry looked for them both ... and immediately wished he hadn't. For there, at the central point of the courtyard, was a tall wooden structure. Crude and hastily assembled, it was swaying in what little breeze there was. Harry fixed his gaze on it, utterly unable to tear his eyes from the horrendous sight, the sickening, gut-churning truth.

For he was staring at a _gallows_.

A gallows with _three_ victims rocking gently from nooses at their necks.

Harry _felt_ Hermione's low groan of despair in his own body as her eyes, too, fell on the scene. Harry was moving before he knew it, scrambling through the brambles and undergrowth to reach the hanging victims. He refused to take his eyes off the trio - the charred remains of a man, a woman ... and the singed blonde hair of a girl.

Harry's mind couldn't focus, couldn't find sense. His feet didn't feel like they were hitting the floor anymore. He was mindless to get to the gallows, to leave this infernal wood, and in his childish mind he thought he could somehow save the day again. As he always did.

But not this time.

"Protego!"

The low-spoken spell conjured an invisible wall in front of Harry and he careened straight into it. He toppled backwards and was immediately pinned down by strong hands. He looked up into the strained and tear-streaked face of Minerva McGonagall, who was the one restraining him.

"Get off me! Let me up!!" Harry shrieked, struggling against his Regent. Then Hermione was there, and she took Minerva's place as Harry's restraining force.

"Harry! Be still!" Hermione hushed. She seemed to have grasped the ongoing danger of the situation. They weren't safe yet. It was this that made Harry sag and his struggle fell away.

"We have to get to them!" Harry implored. "We cant leave them like that!"

"You cant go in there, Harry! I wont let you."

"They'll die!"

"Harry - they're dead already."

Minerva's heartsick words lodged in Harry's throat. An angry, abrasive whine came before he could stop it. It filled his entire body, and it was all he could do to not cry out. He snapped his head back to cause himself pain, to feel something that wasn't this indomitable gout of misery. Hermione's arms slid around his neck, gripping him tightly and squeezing the guilt out of him.

"There was nothing you could have done, either of you," Minerva whispered on. "You'd have been killed too."

"How?" Hermione managed to ask, still massaging Harry's scalp to keep him sedated. "How did this happen?"

"Enola ... she was placed under the Imperius when you went to St Mungo's," Minerva replied. "The GR wanted her father, for his communication technology. But they knew she was friends with the Seer. So they came for the Roths, too. Enola let them right in the front door."

"But what about the protection spell?" Hermione argued. "You cant give away the location of the Gardens. If you do you'll ... you'll -"

Her words were broken off by Neville sat hunched nearby, who cried out in such blood-chilling sorrow that Hermione didn't think she'd ever heard anything so pitiful in all her life. She felt her own heart break as the sound echoed in her ears.

" _Enola_ ... too?"

Minerva nodded grimly. "We only got out because Celesca sent us to take your parents and the Longbottoms on a tour of the National Park. Don't worry, they are all safe. Your parents are looking after Miss Lovegood, too. She's distraught, as you can imagine. Celesca refused to give her up, or say anything about you two ... not even when theytook her _eyes_."

Harry closed his own as the horror of the scene played out in his mind. It was a sadistic, ironic punishment. It made him sick to his stomach.

"We can't stay," Minerva went on. "The GR are rounding up the other people who were sheltering here. By nightfall this place will be crawling with Dementors." She nodded gravely at Harry, who seemed frozen, unable to move. "Get him on his feet, Hermione. I'll deal with Mr Longbottom. Can you manage that?"

Hermione nodded, then tugged Harry to his feet. She slid an arm around his waist, wrapped one of his own around her neck, and followed the old Transfiguration mistress down and out into the Valley.


End file.
